


A Fine Upbringing

by ChibiDawn23



Category: Murdoch Mysteries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:15:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 38,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24442690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChibiDawn23/pseuds/ChibiDawn23
Summary: George Crabtree's upbringing was most unorthodox, but it shaped him into the man he is today. From a church in Toronto, to a rectory on Flower Hill in St. John's, to Station House #4, this is the story of George's search for a family...and the place he belongs. A Young!George story.
Comments: 24
Kudos: 11





	1. Prologue: Summer, 1866

June in Toronto dawned sunny and clear. A light breeze blew in from Lake Ontario and the trees were finally in full bloom. A strong floral scent wafted through the city from the flower wagons on Parliament Street. The street was bustling at this time of morning, regular folks going about their business, tourists in to the city to see the beaches, constables walking their beats and keeping the peace.

George Crabtree marveled at the colors and the sounds. As he walked through the commotion, he smiled jauntily to a couple of young ladies outside a hat shop. They turned pink and became very interested in their window displays.

George paused intentionally to look in the windows of the shop. He knew the ladies were looking at him through the window and he wanted them to have as long a look as they'd like. He brushed a lock of his black hair off his forehead, pretended to peruse the display of homburgs resting on the boxes in the window. His brown eyes caught a glimpse of one of the ladies looking at him, and he gave her a playful wink. The young woman looked please to be noticed, but he saw her look away as if embarrassed to be caught staring.

He waved at her, and continued on his way. Oh, the sounds of the city were _glorious_! He paused on the street to purchase a ham sandwich and a lemonade, then continued ambling through the streets. For a young man from Belleville, the city was a far cry from the town he'd grown up in. The city was big, and busy, and beautiful, and full of opportunities for a young man to make his way.

He found himself on the beach with his lunch, watching men and women frolicking in the waters, still a little chilly, but after months of cold, tolerable. George sat himself down in the sand to eat and observe. The lemonade bottle was sweating, and when he set it down in the sand, the particles clung to the bottle and his fingers each time he took a drink. _The bottle needs a casing of some sort,_ he thought, holding it up in front of his eyes. _It might serve as a double function-to keep the user's hands from getting full of moisture, while at the same time keeping the beverage chilled._ He smiled. _Something to think on, indeed_. He stayed in his spot in the sand until the tops of his arms began to turn a light pink, and then he was up and on his way again.

_If the daytime is this vibrant_ , George thought, _I am most interested in the evening's offerings!_

* * *

A chill rippled through the air as Grace Brooks pulled her blonde hair back and out of her face, letting a few locks tumble around her ears. She was late, she was _very_ late, and Cyrus was going to kill her, she just knew it. A barrel of Mrs. Huntington's delicates had overturned at the laundry, and Grace had had to redo the entire load before she'd been allowed to leave. Grace threw open the back door of the pub and tossed her thin shawl into a corner before plastering on a smile and picking up a tray. The pub was unusually busy that evening, she noted. _Lots of folks in town what with the weather change an' all_ , she figured, as she made her way over to a table and offered her most flirtatious smile to the man sitting there.

"What'll you have?" she asked him.

He was a good looking sort, she noted. Dark hair framed his face, just a hint of stubble. He wore a simple straw hat and, Grace guessed, judging by his clothing, he wasn't a local. She set her tray down and leaned over the table, letting him get a good look at her. "What're you in the mood for, sweetie?" she asked him.

"I…" he stammered, his eyes unable to fixate anywhere else but _exactly_ where Grace had intended. "I suppose whatever you recommend?"

_He is adorable_. Grace poked him on the nose. "Get you somethin' special," she assured him, let her hips sway a bit as she walked away. _Gonna get good gratuities from that one_ , she thought to herself, pleased. She went up to the bar, mixed a drink, ignoring the glare Cyrus sent her way, and walked back over to the dark-haired stranger, presenting him with the drink. "Like to pay for that one now or wait 'til you've had a few more?" she questioned him.

"Oh!" He fumbled in his pants pocket, pulled out some coins and handed them to her. He took a sip of the amber-colored drink in front of him. His eyes widened. "That's incredible," he breathed, savoring it. "What is it?"

Grace shook her head. "My own secret recipe," she told him, with an exaggerated wink and whisper. "Only pull out for special gents like yourself."

"I-would you, that is….would you like to sit down and join me?" he asked her.

Grace laughed. "Oh no, wouldn't be fair to these other gents," she said, twirling a finger around the room. "'Less you make it worth my time, Mr…?"

"Crabtree," he replied. "George Crabtree."

"First day in Toronto?"

He nodded, wide eyed. "How did you know?"

She grinned. "There's a type," she explained. "You fit the bill. I'm Grace."

"A pleasure, Miss Grace," George said. "Perhaps, if you're not too busy, you could come back this way a little later and tell me what a man mustn't miss while he's in the city?"

Grace shot him a wink. "Got a few ideas, there," she assured him.

* * *

Over the next few weeks, as the temperatures rose, Grace found herself in the company of George Crabtree every moment she was able. Some afternoons, she would find George standing outside the laundry, a flower and a muffin in his hand, waiting for her. She showed him the shops on King Street and they marveled at the things neither of them could afford. George had a sharp mind, Grace noted, and spoke of a great many theories and ideas he had as they strolled the sidewalks.

George adored her laugh and her inability to be coy about anything. It was refreshing from the girls at school, whose opinions changed to suit the boy they fancied. Grace was a wonderful guide, and he often found himself asking her questions about the city simply to hear her voice.

One afternoon, Grace skived off work to take a walk with him through Parliament Street. The skies were threatening rain, but the two were so enamored with each other that it was risk they were willing to take. No sooner had they passed the jewelry store on the corner, the skies opened up and rained poured over them. George shed his threadbare jacket and held it over Grace's head as the two of them ran for cover, finally ducking into an alleyway and into a doorway.

"You look a mess, George," Grace laughed. His hair stuck to his head and face and gave him the look of a drowned rat.

"Oh, it's just a spot of rain," George countered. "And anything to keep you looking as beautiful as you are," he swallowed, his body pressed against hers in the small door frame. He locked eyes with Grace, suddenly feeling very warm despite the chill of the rain.

"How far is your hotel?" Grace asked him slowly.

He snaked an arm around her waist, pulled her close to him. "Close enough," he growled, and the two of them made a run for it.

* * *

The freshness of June gave way to the heat of July. Grace Brooks was humming to herself as she scrubbed down a table at the pub, readying for the evening rush as the whistles blew. She hadn't heard from George in a day or so, and assumed it was because he was pitching one of his ideas to an investor at the Dominion Bank. He'd had a grand idea for some kind of machine—he'd tried explaining it to Grace but only got more exasperated when she didn't understand what it was he was after. _Imagine_ , she thought, _me, marrying a grand inventor!_ With a patent and money rolling in, Grace imagined herself in a grand neighborhood in a stately home with a maid to clean it for her. George would return home from his factory, because of course, there would need to be a factory, and kiss her soundly as she sat down with him for a rich supper, and then afterwards-

Cyrus bellowed at her from the bar, and she pushed the fantasy aside, for the moment. She felt queasy, and didn't know if it was from Cyrus's tone or the smell coming off the lake-that sort of fishy smell that flooded the neighborhoods close to the docks, especially when it was a hot and humid day like today.

She'd nearly made it to the bar before she rushed to the outhouse to throw up.

George walked her home from work that evening. It made her feel a little better.

* * *

She hadn't seen George in almost a week. The desk clerk at the hotel had informed her, looking down his nose, that Mr. Crabtree had checked out a few days ago. Confused, she'd frequented the streets where they'd taken their walks whenever she had a free moment, coming precariously close to losing her job as a laundress. There was no sign of the handsome young man from Belleville.

Had she had the money socked away, she'd have purchased a ticket to Belleville to track him down, but of course, after funds and food, there was hardly any left to live on.

And there was something else.

Grace Brooks was _sure_ she was pregnant. The queasiness hadn't gone away in nearly three weeks. Her friend Mabel at the laundry told her she had all the signs.

_A baby_. _George's_ _baby_ ,she thought to herself. _If only I could find him to tell him so._

* * *

She wondered if the baby would look more like him, or more like herself. As September gave way to October, there was a chill in the air. She was starting to show and had to let some of the stitching out of her dresses to give way for her expanding belly. Cold wind blew in off the lake; it would snow any day. Grace still felt awful, and there was still no sign of George Crabtree anywhere in Toronto. The smell of the bar made her sick, and she was no longer bringing in the tips she had been before her body had started accommodating the child inside her. Men didn't look at her the same way.

She was miserable, and spent most of November in a melancholy funk in her boarding house.

Winter seemed to last forever. She'd scrimped and saved through the cold winter months, her hands freezing and cracking from the cold water at the laundry, her face gaunt from the lack of good meals. So unlike the future that Grace had imagined for herself all those months ago.

Grace had tried to send a telegram to Belleville, but hadn't had the money to make it go through.

_My dearest George-_

_I'm having a baby. It's yours. Please come back to Toronto._

_Yours, Grace Brooks._

* * *

Grace Brooks awoke with a start on the afternoon of March 13, 1867. She wasn't sure what it was that had woken her, until she realized her sheets were wet and the baby… _Oh, the baby. It's time!_ Panicked, she tried calling for help through the walls, but there was no response.

_The hospital. I must make it to the hospital_.

She was never going to get there. It terrified her, but Mabel, who also worked part time as a midwife, had told her all sorts of stories about births and babies. _I can do this_ , Grace thought. _If there is no help, then I must help myself._ She filled a bowl with water, found her spare set of clean sheets.

At around two a.m. on March 14, 1867, a wail split the silence, and Grace rushed to hush the baby as she tended to herself and the beautiful, dark-haired little boy she now held in her arms. She was exhausted. Her body was a wreck. But the baby, _oh, the baby was beautiful! Just like her George._

_Oh, if only your father was here to meet you_ , she thought, looking at the baby through heavy-lidded eyes. If George could only meet his son, then surely…except she didn't know how to find him. Perhaps he didn't want to be found. Her fantasy of her columned house and her maid and her loving husband was just that..a fantasy.

She was Grace Brooks. Laundress. Barmaid. Living in a boarding house she was almost sure to be kicked out of. As she held the now sleeping little boy in her arms, she knew.

_I can't do this_. _I can't be the mother you deserve._ _I want big dreams and comfort for you, little one, but those are things I cannot provide for you._

Grace reached for a stub of pencil on her dresser, and a piece of paper.

* * *

St. James Church  
March 14, 1867

Reverend Jonathan Lovell leaned the broom against the archway, listening intently. The afternoon was quiet, the snow falling lightly outside keeping most people at home. March snowstorms could turn ugly because of the lake, and so most were wise enough to stay home. The Reverend liked to do this chore himself, sweeping each row of pews in the sanctuary, praying for each patron that might sit in that seat during services.

The Reverend Lovell was halfway through sweeping the sanctuary when he heard it. Crying. Coming from…He frowned. _Outside?_

_Whoever this poor soul is_ , he thought, _must be in need of assistance._ Shrugging into a long coat, Rev. Lovell pulled open the big oak door, and gasped, his hand flying to his face in shock.

A faded, paisley-patterened carpet bag lay on the stone steps. It was the bag that was crying, and Rev. Lovell picked it up and tugged aside the top inside it to reveal the red, screaming face of a baby. _What in the world…_ He ran a hand through his dark blonde hair and then ran it over his face. _Holy Father…_ He looked around, snowflakes swirling around the open door Any footprints on the stairs were covered with the quickly-falling, big flakes of snow. The streets were silent. Whoever had dropped the baby off on the doorstep was long gone. He sent up a prayer for whoever it had been. _May they find peace_ , he added, _for surely anyone desperate to leave their baby in the care of the church has much in their lives to contemplate._

Still holding the child, he went back inside the church, shivering. Once inside, he made his way to the sanctuary and sat down in the very back row, setting the bundle down on the pew. The baby had calmed a bit, fussing more than screaming. The baby had a shock of black hair, and when he opened his eyes, the reverend got a glimpse of brown eyes. The baby wore a simple shirt and tiny bloomers, and there was a note tucked inside of the blankets-Rev. Lovell supposed it was so it didn't get wet or smudged. Gently, he pulled the note loose, keeping one hand on the squirming child.

_His name is George Crabtree. Please look after him, and give him all the best you can._

There was no name, no address.

Rev. Lovell looked at the boy, who was now sleeping soundly on the pew. "Well," he said, his voice soft with a smile. He brushed a few flakes off the boy's tiny cheeks. "Hello there, George."


	2. Spring, 1870

The earth and sky were indistinguishable from one another as Rev. Lovell looked out over the dark waters. The fog was so thick in front of them, he was amazed that their captain was able to pilot the ferry confidently. He glanced over the side of the boat at the dark water lapping at the hull, then almost as quickly back up to the horizon once again as his stomach churned.

Reverend John Lovell did _not_ like boats. Unfortunately, boat was the only means of transportation to the colony of Newfoundland, and the Good Lord had requested his presence there. _And 'go therefore' do I_ , he thought to himself, and then smiled. _Or rather, "we."_

He pushed back off the rail and walked over to where a young man sat, playing with a dark-haired little boy on the deck. The older of the two children grinned at the Reverend. "Feeling better, then?" he questioned him.

Rev. Lovell nodded. "Much," he replied, taking a seat next above the two boys on a bench, wishing the bench was forward-facing instead of sideways so he could keep his eye on where the horizon _should_ have been. He smiled down at George, who was leaning against the side of the boat. "And what have you there, George?" he asked the toddler.

Three-year-old George Crabtree proudly held up the wheeled, wooden duck in his hands. His smile reached all the way up to his big, brown eyes. "My duck," he announced. "See?" He stood up, wobbling a bit with the movement, and tugged the duck around by the string around its' neck, making quacking sounds as he did. It earned him a lot of stares from those of the crew and the passengers who were outside in the humid air.

Rev. Lovell chuckled. "Well done, George, well done." He turned to the older boy and handed him a few coins. "Thank you, for looking after him. I didn't want him so close to the edge-well, in case I-"

"Wow!" the boy said, gaping at the money. "I-I could watch him until we get to St. John's, if you like?" he offered. They both watched the boy as he whirled around the deck unsteadily on his tiny legs, quacking.

The reverend grinned at him. "We'll see. Thank you, again." He looked up quickly at George, who was nearly halfway across the deck. "George, please stay close," the reverend cautioned the boy. George quacked back at him, but did eventually make his way over to the two, plopping himself cross-legged on the deck as he patted the duck in his lap. He tugged on Reverend Lovell's trouser leg.

The reverend bent down. "What is it, George?" he asked him.

"Quack!" The boy tossed the duck up in the air with both hands, nearly hitting Rev. Lovell in the face. He managed to catch the toy before it flew backwards over his head and into the gulf. He looked down at George, who was grinning like the cat who ate the proverbial canary at him. He wrapped his arms around Rev. Lovell's leg and squeezed, looking up at him innocently.

Rev. Lovell shook his head. "Quack, indeed, George," he said, finding it very hard to be upset with the child when he looked at him like that.

* * *

The docks of St. John's, Newfoundland, were a far cry different than the ferry. As Rev. Lovell hefted his bag and George's small suitcase, he clutched the boy's hand tightly. "Do not let go, George," he ordered him seriously. The boy was wide-eyed watching all the action around them. "George, did you hear me?"

"Hold on tight," George assured him, his eyes flickering left and right and up and down and every direction. There was _so_ much to see! People were all over the place. Rev. Lovell kept an iron grip on George's tiny fingers as he threaded his way through the fishermen, dockworkers, and-

"Look at this dapper gent!"

"And the handsome little man with him!"

The compliments came from two women who were hanging out the window of a dilapidated shanty. The paint was peeling, probably from years of exposure to the wind and salt water. A sign hanging above it proclaimed it as The Wharf. Rev. Lovell couldn't help but stare. _Lord, forgive me_ , he asked. The two women were heavily made up, one blonde, one brunette, and from what the reverend could see of their clothing…He turned George's eyes in the direction of two men who were tossing fish from a boat into a barrel on the docks. The boy watched the proceedings in awe.

"Reverend, I might be lookin' for a little heavenly guidance," the blonde called to him with a dazzling smile.

"I'd also like to get a little closer to God!" her friend put in with a wink.

Rev. Lovell offered them a wave. "Ladies," he acknowledged to them, making sure not to lose his grip on George's hand. George's attention was no longer on the fishermen, but watching the exchange with the two women intently.

"'magine that, calling us ladies," the brunette smirked.

"'fraid that's a bit of a stretch!" the blonde called down. She exchanged a glance with the brunette, then said, "But if you'd like to come give us a sermon or two…"

He ducked his head with a smile. "Perhaps another time," he told them. "Could you point us in the direction of St. Mary's?"

The blonde looked at him with something akin to respect. Then, she smiled. "Straight up the road, head west. 's on Flower Hill. Can't miss it. You-"

"Oi!" A gruff interjection interrupted the conversation as a big, burly man in a half-buttoned cotton shirt and brown trousers stepped out of The Wharf's front door. He snapped his fingers at the Reverend and George. "'Less you're buyin' a pint, get the hell outta here!" George latched onto the Reverend's leg and buried his face behind his trousers. Rev. Lovell placed a hand on his hair reassuringly.

"Sorry," he said carefully. "We were only-"

"And you!" The man picked up an empty bottle from the ground and flung it up at the windows. It shattered next to it, sending the two women screeching and ducking away from the broken glass. "Get back inside!"

The man caught Rev. Lovell staring, and he strode up to them. His breath reeked of alcohol. "You got a problem, Father?" he hissed at him.

George held onto the Reverend's leg tighter. "Reverend, actually," Lovell corrected him. "And no. We were just leaving."

"See that you are," the man said. "I don't need no piece of shite man of God tryin' to convert my girls."

Rev. Lovell frowned. "I'd rather you didn't take the Lord's name in vain, or swear in front of my boy," he told him.

The man looked him up and down. "Your b'y? Thought you men o' the cloth were s'posed to stay away from the women," he leered.

"I think we'll be on our way," Rev. Lovell said, taking a step to move past him. The man blocked his way. The reverend raised an eyebrow. George poked his head out from behind his leg, curious. "Sir," Rev. Lovell said. "We'd like to get going."

"Sure you do," the man said. A small crowd had gathered, watching the confrontation. Rev. Lovell was very much aware of the fact that he and George were in a precarious situation.

"I don't want any trouble," he said. "Please, allow us to pass."

The man grinned. George saw that he was missing a couple of teeth in the bottom row. Without warning, he reached out, and grabbed the reverend by the collar. George stumbled backwards away from the two men, and into the waiting arms of the blonde woman from the window. She held onto him, and they watched as Reverend Lovell knocked the man's hand aside, sidestepped out of the way. It was a fluid, practiced movement.

Murmurs from the crowd around them, and a voice yelled, "Show 'im what for, Sean!"

Sean, the bigger man, took a swing at Reverend Lovell. It connected just off his jaw on the right side. Rev. Lovell staggered. "You gonna turn the other cheek for me, Reverend?" Sean asked him.

Rev. Lovell raised an eyebrow. "Do unto others," he shrugged, and swung. The left hook connected, hard enough that the big man dropped to the dirt. The Reverend stood over him, shaking his fist out, and looked over at George, who was staring at him in awe. "I hope you'll forgive me, Sean," he said. Then, he walked over to George and the blonde woman. George threw himself into the reverend's arms, and he hugged him tightly. "Oh, George, I'm sorry you had to see that," he apologized to the boy. He looked at the blonde woman over George's back. "Thank you, for keeping an eye on him, he told her.

"Weren't nothin'," she shrugged. "He's a fine boy, he is." She poked him in the nose and George buried his head bashfully in the reverend's shoulder. "I'm Agnes," she introduced herself. She nodded to the woman up in the window, who was watching with a satisfactory smirk as Sean had to be helped up off the ground. "That's Delia."

"Reverend John Lovell. I'm the new head of worship at St. Mary's," Rev. Lovell told her. He hefted George higher on his hip. "And this young man is George."

Agnes smiled warmly. "Pleasure," she said. Her eyes flickered over to Sean and her face fell. "Perhaps it's best the two of you got gone," she suggested. "Sean'll be in quite the mood once the pain's wore off."

Rev. Lovell nodded. "Perhaps I'll see you Sunday," he said, by way of parting. He hefted his bag and George's suitcase under his arm once more, and headed off into town, looking over his shoulder more than once until he was sure they weren't being followed.

* * *

"It's really big," George said quietly as he and Rev. Lovell looked up at the tall spire of St. Mary's Church. "I like the stones."

Rev. Lovell ruffled his hair. "I do, too," he said. He knew, better than anyone, that the church façade does not a church make, but the building's elegant construction was indeed eye-catching. "Shall we?" he asked George, taking his hand and leading him up the steps. George's eyes tried to follow all the way up to the sky, and he nearly toppled backwards craning his neck to look up. The reverend steadied him with a smile. He pulled open the door and the two of them walked inside.

Rev. Lovell surveyed the sanctuary. Long, wooden pews lined an aisle of smooth, rounded rocks and plaster. In front, a painting of Jesus Christ almost as tall as himself was framed in a thick wooden frame behind the altar. George let go of his hand and was running up and down the aisle, taking it all in. He couldn't even remand the boy for running. He smiled. _It's a blessing, Lord. It's a blessing to be taking over here._ "George!" he called, his voice echoing in the large space. The boy was standing at the top of the aisle, his eyes fixed on the altar, with its' large Bible and tall gilded crosses on either end.

"Is this where Jesus lives?" George asked, when the reverend came to stand next to him.

Rev. Lovell smiled fondly. "Jesus lives _here_ ," he told him, tapping him on the chest. "But yes, I suppose He will also live here, when there are people here to worship."

George looked up at him. "Is this where we live, too?" He pointed at the front pew. "I can sleep there, angels can watch me!"

 _The faith of children_ , Rev. Lovell thought to himself. He picked George up. "I believe our house is next door. Shall we go take a look?" George nodded excitedly, bouncing in his arms.

The rectory next door to St. Mary's was a large, Victorian-style home, three floors with big windows and lavish furniture. Rev. Lovell's eyes widened as he set their bags down inside the door. _All this space…George will get lost in here_ , he thought, only half-joking, and indeed, the boy had dropped his hand the moment they'd walked in and was racing about, exploring. He felt a pang of sadness. The rectory was clearly meant to house a family, a large one, by the looks of it. It seemed so lavish for a simple man like himself, and George, of course.

George came running back into the foyer. "I love it!" he proclaimed. He tugged on the reverend's hand. "I show you where I want to sleep!" he told him, pulling him toward the stairs. Rev. Lovell couldn't help but smile. The boy had been such a welcome distraction in his life, truly a blessing from the Lord.

* * *

George sat in the front pew Sunday morning, doing his best not to kick his feet. He knew he had to be 'spectful and sit quietly while Rev. Lovell talked about Jesus. His eyes were trained on the big portrait of the Lord behind the reverend's head as he talked about the woman at the well.

When the service was over, the Reverend stood in the back by the doors, shaking hands and introducing himself to his new parishioners. His eyes widened a little when George came running up to him, a blonde woman in tow behind him. The boy was grinning from ear to ear in his Sunday finery. "Look!" he announced, putting the woman's hand on his head.

Rev. Lovell smiled. "Agnes. A pleasure to see you again." She nodded politely, and he was pleased to see that she'd brought a shawl to cover up with for the service. "Did you enjoy today's message?" he questioned her.

She nodded. "Almost as if it were made for me," she said brightly. Her shawl shifted, and he caught a glimpse of a mottled purple bruise on her upper arm. She caught him staring and hiked it over her shoulders again. "It was also good to see this young one again," she added, mussing George's hair. The boy ducked out from under her hand with a grin. "So well behaved during the sermon, I'd have never known there was a young man sittin' up there. Such a little gentleman."

George's ears turned pink with pride.

"That he is," Rev. Lovell agreed. "Did your friend come with you today?"

"Delia's home abed," Agnes told him. "A mite under the weather, she is." Her tone faltered a bit, and the Reverend had a feeling there was an underlying message there.

"I'm sorry to hear that. I could perhaps call on her sometime this week," he offered.

"I think she'd appreciate that," Agnes said honestly. "I best be gettin' on," she said. "Thank you again, Reverend."

Rev. Lovell gave her a polite smile, the wheels turning in his mind as he blinked, and turned to greet the rest of his new church family. He caught George waving goodbye emphatically at Agnes, and the young woman blew the boy a kiss back.

* * *

The sun was trying to peek out from behind the clouds as Reverend Lovell made his way down to the docks a few days later. The breeze off the harbor was strong, as if trying to counteract the sunlight. He was well aware that he was being watched, and stared at, and was glad that he'd left George in the care of St. Mary's organ player, Miss Wilhelmina, that afternoon, instead of bringing him along on this errand.

He paused for a moment outside of The Wharf, looking around for Sean. The big man was nowhere to be found. _Thank goodness for small favors_.

"You lost, Reverend?" a sprightly voice asked from behind him. Rev. Lovell turned, and smiled warmly at Agnes and Delia, who were coming down the path behind him.

"Good afternoon, ladies. You're looking well," he told them. He glanced around. "I wonder if I might have a word with you?"

The two women exchanged hesitant looks. "Why not," Delia shrugged. "Feel rotten turnin' down a polite request like that. Don't often get much for polite."

"Delia," Agnes chided her gently. The Reverend led them down the path and away from prying eyes and ears. Once he felt they had a private enough spot, he turned to them.

"I want to make you ladies a proposition."

Delia snorted, and Rev. Lovell flushed when he realized what he'd said. "That's…that's not what I meant," he corrected himself. "What I mean is…" He paused for a breath.

Agnes chuckled. "You're much more eloquent on Sunday mornings, you are," she teased him.

He laughed, embarrassed. "Truly it's the Lord that speaks on Sundays, not me," he confessed. "No. What I meant to ask…I wanted to propose a business venture, of sorts."

Agnes raised an eyebrow. "The rectory of St. Mary's Church, it's _far_ too much space for young George and myself. I feel as though it could be put to better use than a home for the two of us." Rev. Lovell looked at the two of them. "I would like to suggest that you ladies come live there."

"If this's you tryin' to convert us, Reverend, it's a lost cause," Delia cautioned him.

He held up a hand. "Miss Delia, the Bible tells me that our Lord and Savior kept the company of tax collectors, criminals and prostitutes. He never attempted to change their professions, rather, He chose to speak the truth and minister to them on their own walks of life."

At Agnes's curious glance, the Reverend explained. "I have not always been a Reverend," he told them. "In fact, before the Lord called me, I was something of a marvelous sinner."

"And a hell of a fighter," Delia said, thinking of the events upon Rev. Lovell's arrival in St. John's.

He nodded. "I have done many things I am not proud of, but the Lord forgives and put me on the road I am on now. And I am just a man, it is not for me to judge anyone's journey, or their choices."

The two women looked confused, and he pressed on. "There would be conditions, of course," he admitted. "You would, of course, take your earnings and pay rent to myself, to help cover living expenditures as well as…let's call it a weekly offering." He ticked them off on his fingers as he spoke. "You must attend church every Sunday. You will look out for one another," he explained, giving both of them a knowing glance. "And, the final thing. All of your…customers…" He shrugged, unable to come up with a better term. "All of your customers must wear a tie. No exceptions."

Agnes and Delia studied him, trying to decide if he was serious, or if he was joking.

Agnes held up a hand. "How many rooms does the rectory have?" she questioned him.

He did a quick mental count. "Seven. Well, five at the moment, but George and I will be looking for a smaller home for the two of us, close to the church. George loves to walk and explore; he is rarely idle. I feel as though a good walk Sunday mornings before the service will be beneficial. The entire rectory would be yours to own and operate out of."

Agnes looked at Delia, who offered her a one-shoulder shrug. The blonde woman grinned. "Would you mind it terribly, Reverend, if we asked a few other... _business_ associates to join us?"

* * *

"Oh my Lord!" Delia gaped at the rectory as she looked at it from the sidewalk. "I daresay we'll never run into another soul in there!"

"You'll have to work on your language, dear," Agnes said, crossing her arms over her chest with a smile. She looked beside her, to the looks of awe on three more of her friends' faces. "Ladies, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

The Reverend and George met them at the door. "Welcome to Flower Hill," the reverend greeted them.

"Hi!" George said happily, giving Agnes a hug. She swung the boy into her arms and tickled him before setting him down again. "Hi, Delia," George greeted the other woman politely.

"Hello, darling. _Flower_ Hill, eh?" Delia mused, looking at the other ladies. She had a twinkle in her eye. "Oh, ladies…do I have the most wonderful idea…"


	3. Winter, 1875

George held the book up in front of his eyes, rereading the paragraph for the tenth time. Despite being only seven, nearly eight, the words were not too large for him. Aunt Azalea and Rev. Lovell read to him all the time.

_Many legends tell the tale of Sasquatch—the missing link between homo sapien and ape. These menacing creatures are bipedal-walking upright on two legs. They are covered from head to foot in black or brown hair, and stand roughly 1.8-2.7 metres tall. These creatures are rarely sighted in full, but leave traces of their massive hands and feet in the earth and snow._

George glanced out the window. The snow had stopped falling hours ago, leaving large drifts up and down the street. The wind whipped them into tall crests in the front yard of the rectory, nearly to the bottoms of the windowsills. "Lots of snow," he whispered. "Plenty of snow to see tracks." He grinned, setting the book on the stand next to the bed he used when he stayed with his aunts, and surveyed the bed.

He'd borrowed Rev. Lovell's rucksack, and spread all over the bed were all of the necessary tools to hunt a sasquatch and collect evidence of their existence. He was already dressed in his long underwear and pants. Gloves, hat, and boots were in a pile beside the bed. On the bed, he'd gathered his book, page dog-eared to the chapter on the Sasquatch, a length of rope, a magnifying glass (borrowed from Aunt Iris, as she couldn't see the print in books very well-Aunt Iris reading to him took far longer than he liked), a fishing net that he'd nicked from down at the docks during the summer while playing with Benjamin Pittman, a torch, and a wrapped pack of bacon from the morning's breakfast.

"Time to go," George whispered, shoving it all into the rucksack. Rev. Lovell had dropped him off at the rectory while he was next door in the church, working on his sermon for Sunday. George dressed in the rest of his cold-weather clothing and slung the now-heavy rucksack over his shoulders. It was so large it nearly dragged on the ground behind him, but if he held onto it in the front with his gloved hands, he could pull it up a little farther, so it was less cumbersome.

 _George Crabtree, wilderness explorer! First man to capture a live Sasquatch and live to tell the tale!_ He quietly opened the bedroom door, listening up and down the halls. He could hear Aunt Azalea in her room; her boisterous laughter rang through the closed door. Downstairs in the kitchen, he could smell what he thought were custard tarts, and Aunt Dahlia and Aunt Petunia arguing over their bake time. _Aunt Dahlia is right_ , he thought to himself. Aunt Petunia couldn't cook. She always left everything on the stovetop just a bit too long.

George crept down the stairs to the front door, every muscle tense. He knew he was not to go outside by himself on days like today, not without an adult to take him sledding or skating. _But today is the perfect day_ , he argued with himself. _No one is outside because of the weather._ He knew that animals were more likely to come out of hiding if there were no people around-just like the squirrels in the park when Aunt Primrose would take him to feed the ducks. _And_ , he told himself, _perhaps the Sasquatch are like bears. Perhaps they sleep during the winter._ It would be much easier to sneak up on a sleeping Sasquatch, he rationalized, than one that was awake.

Had he looked at the thermometer that was stuck to the window next to the door, he would have noted that the mercury was hovering around -10 degrees. But George was not thinking of the dangers of frostbite, or blizzards, or hypothermia.

As he closed the door quietly behind him, he was more concerned about where he was going to find a cave in the middle of St. John's.

* * *

It was Aunt Azalea who first noticed that something was amiss. She smiled at Ben Farrelly as he buttoned his coat and gave her a kiss on the cheek. "I reckon I shall be warm all the way home," he teased her as she ushered him out. Azalea blew him a kiss and closed the door behind him, shivering as she did so. The clock on the wall read half two.

She glanced out the parlor windows as she passed through on her way to the kitchen. From Flower Hill, one could see very nearly to the harbor. Beyond the gray skies and bare trees, she could just make out the black water in the harbor below.

The wind picked up, swirling snow around the windows, and Azalea added another log to the fire as she went into the kitchen. Dahlia and Petunia were seated at the table, custard tarts cooling on the tabletop. Azalea studied the batch. "About three minutes less next time, I daresay," she noted. Petunia shot her a dark look as Dahlia burst out laughing.

She swatted Petunia's shoulder. "Told ya as much!" she laughed. "May you never have to cook fer a man, Tunie!"

Petunia drew herself up haughtily. "Won't be my cooking that bags me a man," she said with her nose in the air.

Above their heads, there was a thump, and then laughter. "Sounds like Darby O'Bryan is enjoyin' himself!" Dahlia chuckled, shaking her head. "Primrose is havin' a fine time entertainin'!"

"Speaking of entertaining," Azalea said to the other two, "have you checked on Georgie in awhile?"

Dahlia and Petunia exchanged a glance. "I'd imagine he's in his room," Dahlia said.

"Odd though," Petunia said, "he usually comes out soon as the kettle's on," she pointed out.

Azalea sighed. "I wish Daisy hadn't gotten him that silly book," she said. "Boy is convinced now there's Martians and unicorns and sea monsters in the harbor and all other manner of strange creatures that walk among us. I'll go check on him. The Reverend should be here in about ten minutes, girls," she reminded them.

Azalea made her way upstairs to the room that they'd deemed George's room when their unofficial nephew came to call on them. All of the women doted on the boy, and the Reverend was both adamant that they shouldn't and yet flattered that they did so. George was smart as a whip, Azalea thought to herself, and a young gentleman to boot. In a few years' time, he would be quite eye-catching too, what with that dark hair and those bright, brown eyes.

She knocked on George's door softly. "Georgie?" she called out. It was entirely possible he had his nose stuck in a book, or that he was napping, she thought, when he didn't answer her right away. Azalea pushed the door open.

The room was empty. She frowned. "George?" she called again, and waited for a response. "George Crabtree, you'd best not be hiding, now."

When there was no answer, she started to worry. Gathering her skirts, she took the stairs two at a time back to the kitchen. "Girls. Georgie is not in his room."

Dahlia and Petunia looked up at her in concern. "What do you mean?" Petunia asked.

Azalea threw her hands in the air. "What do I mean? Petunia, I mean exactly what I've just told you. George is not where he is supposed to be."

"Hey, what's after happening?" The question came from Iris, who was shrugging into her shawl as she came into the room. "What's the yelling for?"

"Have you seen George?" Dahlia asked her.

Iris shook her head. "Was in the bath," she explained. She frowned. "You mean you don't know where the lad is?"

"He's not in his room," Azalea said, exasperated at having to continue to repeat herself. "And none of us have seen him!"

"What do you mean, 'none of you have seen him'?" The deep voice startled all four women, and Azalea looked up quickly to see Rev. Lovell standing in the door, his hat in his hands, brow furrowed in confusion. "Azalea, _where_ is George?"

* * *

George trudged through the snow, which came up very nearly to his waist out on the bluffs high over the harbor. The wind swirled, kicking up the snow into great clouds around him. His face stung as the snow pelted his cheeks. He tried to keep his head down as much as possible, but also stayed very aware of where he was. Too far to his right, and he would topple off the bluffs into the harbor several hundred feet below him.

 _There must be a cave around here_ , he thought. He had read in one of Aunt Ivy's bird books about how some birds like to make their nests in hollows in the sides of the bluff. So, he'd reasoned, a Sasquatch would do the same, but it would be much bigger. And since it couldn't fly, it would have to dig down from the top.

He shivered. _Boy, it's cold up here_ , he thought. It had seemed warmer in town. Out here, there was nothing to stop the wind. _I'll just go a little further_ , he thought.

* * *

A chill settled over the rectory.

Rev. Lovell was beside himself as he paced the parlor floor. The ladies were perched on the furniture. No one spoke. They had torn the rectory apart searching for George, and it was apparent that he was not in the building. Rev. Lovell had sent for the constables the second the discovery had been made.

A knock at the door made them all startle, and Rev. Lovell opened the front door. A stout man with a black moustache and a thick, woolen coat stood on the porch. "Good day to you," he said in a British lilt. "My name is Constable Ashbury."

Rev. Lovell stepped out of the way to let him in. "Constable. Jonathan Lovell." He shook the man's gloved hand.

The constable shook the snow off his jacket and stepped into the parlor. His brows furrowed at the sight of the ladies scattered about the room. He looked at Rev. Lovell, confused. Then, he coughed and said, "I understand we're searching for a missing child?"

"Yes, sir," Rev. Lovell said. He motioned to Azalea, who handed over a tintype photograph of George. Constable Ashbury studied the photo. "This is George," Rev. Lovell explained. "He's seven years old-almost eight-and he wasn't in his room when his aunt went to check on him."

Ashbury looked over the top of the photo frame. "Who is his aunt?" he questioned.

Six hands were raised. He looked at the reverend, now thoroughly confused. "It's complicated," Rev. Lovell said by way of explanation. "Suffice it to say, Constable, that George is not here, and I'm very worried that he is lost somewhere out in-in _that_!" He pointed emphatically to the windows.

The constable still seemed to be confused by the familial relations, but he pushed that aside and asked, "Can you think of any reason George would want to leave the house?"

"He knows he isn't to go outdoors alone," Dahlia said.

"And certainly not in weather such as this! We're quite clear on the matter," Primrose added.

"He's very well behaved, Constable," Azalea assured him. She frowned. "Except for this one time."

"What would be so important that he would disobey you?" Ashbury wondered.

There was a pause. And then, Iris raised her hand timidly. "Sasquatch," she said.

All eyes in the room turned to look at her. "Was that even English?" Petunia asked her, eyebrow raised.

Iris shook her head. "It's in his book. The one Daisy bought for him. The one with all the-the supernatural things in it."

"Iris?" Rev. Lovell prodded. "Go on."

"Well," the small woman stammered, "in it, there's a story about a great beast who lives in the forests, half man, and half ape. The only evidence it exists is footprints that people have seen and photographed."

"Footprints like one might find in the snow on a day such as this," Ashbury realized. "Miss…Iris, was it?" She nodded. "Please tell me more about this…Sasquatch."

The thermometer at the door read -29 degrees.

* * *

George huddled on the leeward side of a large boulder, drawing his legs up under his coat. Rev. Lovell's rucksack was nowhere to be found. Once he'd made up his mind to return home, he'd realized that he wasn't quite sure which way home was. He could no longer see the harbor, and the wind had covered his tracks in the snow. He'd let it slip off his shoulders somewhere out in the snow, but had been too cold to notice.

But he remembered what Rev. Lovell had told him once. _If ever you are lost, George, I want you to pick a spot, and stay there_. _You are much easier to find if we only have to look in one place._

George shivered.

* * *

Constable Ashbury set out on his horse, heading for the bluffs. He had to shield his eyes with his hands so that he could see through the snow and the wind. _Bloody hell, but it's freezing._ The boy was dressed for the weather, his family had assured him that all of his winter clothing was not put away, but in cold like this, it was only a matter of time before one succumbed to the cold.

He urged the horse onward. _Just stay put, young George. We will find you._

* * *

George's teeth chattered. He tried to remember his book while he waited. _Faeries…and Martians…_ "Mars is the fourth p-planet in the s-solar s-sys-stem," he stuttered. It was hard to make his lips move. Had he been paying more attention to his body instead of trying to recall facts, he would have noted that he no longer felt the chill in his legs.

As he recited, he thought he heard someone call his name. He tried to answer back, but he couldn't get his mouth to do what his mind was telling him.

"George!" Constable Ashbury called into the gray and white void of the bluffs. "George Crabtree! Are you out here, son?" The horse was chilled and so was he. He wasn't sure if he could spend too much longer out in the elements, or he may suffer the same fate the young man already had.

"George!"

Something caught his eye, half-buried in the snow. He frowned as he fumbled to turn on his torch, finally got it and trained the light on the object. He climbed off his horse, threaded his way through the snow to pick it up. It was a battered, frost-covered rucksack. He looked around, the wind biting cold. His eyes settled on a large rock formation a little further ahead. "George?" he yelled. The wind swallowed up his voice, and he trudged through the snow as fast as his legs would let him. He thrust a hand out to steady himself on the rocks. He poked his head round the largest of the rocks.

A small figure was huddled in the snow behind the rock. "George?" Ashbury called hesitantly. He reached down and gave the boy a shake.

George's head lolled and one eye opened to look up at the constable. Ashbury coughed out a relieved laugh. "Hello, George. I'm here to take you home."

* * *

Once back at the rectory, the weather had subsided enough for the doctor to make a house call. Remarkably, George suffered very little physically from his little adventure. George had been submerged in a lukewarm bath, and Primrose had whipped up a large batch of her famous stew, enough for all of the adults and young George. The boy was regaining the regular rosy hue to his cheeks instead of the deathly pale blue and white. Ashbury had checked his fingers and toes and pronounced them fine.

"I don't know how to thank you," Rev. Lovell said. "I don't think I've ever prayed so fervently for anything in my life," he confessed. "You truly are a Godsend."

Ashbury shook his head. "Part and parcel of the job, Reverend," he said. "If it's all right with you, perhaps I could call on the boy tomorrow. Just to see how he's faring?"

Rev. Lovell nodded. "Yes. Absolutely. Please. The ladies make a wonderful brunch, so come hungry!"

Ashbury looked like he was going to ask the reverend a question, but thought better of it. He tipped his hat instead. "Tomorrow then."

"Thank you, Constable Ashbury." Rev. Lovell let him out, then fairly sprinted back to the parlor. George was resting on the sofa, sleepy eyes half open, half listening to Aunt Azalea. She had a picture book in her hands. "Azalea, please tell me that's not any more supernatural tales," he chided her gently.

She shook her head, patting George on the chest. "Of course not, Reverend. This one is about pirates."

Rev. Lovell sighed, shaking his head ruefully.

* * *

George lay on the sofa the following morning, relishing the sunlight that came through the windows. He felt warm, and safe, but he did not know how he'd gotten home. Someone had carried him, maybe, he thought.

There was a knock on the front door, and he heard Aunt Ivy's shrill, "I've got it!" George reached for the table for the cup of tea Aunt Petunia had made. It was the one thing Aunt Petunia couldn't mess up. "Good morning, Constable!" Ivy's voice echoed around the main floor.

 _Constable?_ George wondered why there would be a constable at the house so early. He squinted as a man followed Aunt Ivy into the room. The man had a long, black coat with brass buttons, and he wore a strange hat of some kind. "Good morning, young George," the man said with a warm smile under his moustache. "How are you feeling?"

"Warm," was George's response. "Who are you?"

"George, this is Constable Ashbury," Rev. Lovell introduced the man as he came in from the kitchen with his own cup of tea. "He was the one who found you yesterday."

"I was looking for Sasquatch," George remembered. His face fell. "I know you said not to leave, but I-I thought-"

"It's all right," Rev. Lovell cut him off. "You had us all very scared, George," he said.

"Yes, you did," Constable Ashbury said. "I think perhaps you've learned not to chase Sasquatches in the snow, eh?"

George nodded. "I won't," he promised. "I'm sorry," he apologized to the room. His aunts had come in, crowding around the sofa. "I didn't mean to make you scared. I promise I won't do it again."

"What's done is done, Georgie Porgie," Aunt Azalea assured him. She clapped her hands together. "Constable, will you stay for brunch?"

Ashbury nodded. "Could I perhaps eat with the young man here, in the parlor?"

George's eyes lit up. _I get to eat with a constable?_ That was a pretty exciting adventure too.

And he had all sorts of questions….


	4. Fall, 1876

Mrs. Cooper watched the boys in the corner of the yard intently. There were five or six of them, all gathered around Mister Crabtree underneath the large spruce where the fences that boxed in the schoolyard met. They were completely oblivious to the other children running around in the grass, or to the bright yellow leaves that floated to the ground around them, kicked off the tree by the afternoon breeze.

 _They should have been on their way home by now_ , she noted, and wondered what had them talking so heatedly and so intrigued that they were staying after hours. She saw George Crabtree stand, gesturing animatedly at their surroundings, and several of the boys nodding in agreement.

Holly Cooper didn't know what to make of George Crabtree. As she returned to her desk to wipe down the board for the day (it had been too nice out to ask the children to do it-best to enjoy the good weather now before winter set in for what felt like the next eight months), she thought about the nine-year-old.

 _George Crabtree_ … _voracious reader._ She couldn't count the number of times she'd had to ask him to put a book away and concentrate on the work she'd put in front of him. It was interesting that he'd had all the boys crowded around him, Mrs. Cooper noted, because normally, George kept to himself. The boy, she knew, had a unique home life, the specifics of which were much gossiped about around town. So to see him all of a sudden the center of attention was either wonderful or highly curious. He was polite, almost to a fault. Mrs. Cooper surmised it must be because he was being raised by the Reverend at St. Mary's Church. And he was quite smart. He knew quite a lot in his maths and his reading assignments, when she could get him to focus on them. George earned most of his punishments simply because he was always staring off into space, or kicking his legs in his desk, or idly tapping his pencil.

Mrs. Cooper heard a peal of laughter from outside, and looked out the open door to see the boys shaking hands and gathering their things. George, she noted, was the last to leave, waiting, it almost seemed on purpose, until the other boys were gone before he started home in the opposite direction.

She frowned. _Curious, indeed._

* * *

The next day, George could barely think about his essay on the British empire. His fingers tapped idly on his desktop, and he tried to make them stop, because he knew Mrs. Cooper wouldn't like it. His mind was on a completely different subject, and it wasn't long now til recess-

"Mr. Crabtree."

 _Darn it._ He looked up at his teacher from under his lashes, feeling the tips of his ears beginning to turn pink. "Y-yes ma'am?"

Mrs. Cooper was eyeing him. "I had asked if you would please read aloud your first paragraph from your essay."

George was acutely aware that the other students were staring at him. "I-"

He glanced down at his paper. So did Mrs. Cooper.

She sighed. "George, you haven't written anything down."

He pursed his lips together. "Um. N-no, ma'am."

Mrs. Cooper raised an eyebrow. It was a neat trick; George didn't understand how she could lift just the _one_ and not the other. It must be something you were taught as an adult-or maybe it was something only girls could do, Aunt Azalea did it often enough-

He realized that Mrs. Cooper had said something to him. There was snickering from the back of the class. "I-what?" he questioned, embarrassed.

"I said you'll need to stay in and finish your paragraph before recess," Mrs. Cooper repeated, shaking her head at him.

He slumped in his chair. "Yes, ma'am," he said quietly. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Benjamin Pittman looking at him. Ben was his best mate, and had been since George had begun coming to school. Benjamin's father worked out on the boats. George had gone out with them a couple of times by himself; Reverend Lovell did _not_ like boats at _all_. He was amazed that the Reverend even let him go out with the Pittmans.

Ben waited until Mrs. Cooper's back was turned. _Wait for you?_ he mouthed to George.

George shook his head. _No. Go ahead. Meet after school._

Ben nodded, and returned to writing.

George looked down at his blank piece of paper and sighed.

* * *

When Mrs. Cooper dismissed them at the end of the day, George beat it out of the building as fast as his legs would carry him, lest Mrs. Cooper keep him after to bang erasers or worse, finish his essay. He'd managed to eke out four sentences over recess, his eyes continually darting out the door, the window, across the room, anywhere but on what he should have been doing.

Ben and two other boys, Daniel Shaugnessy and Frances LeDoux, were waiting by the fence. "How did it go?" George asked Ben.

Ben grinned widely and triumphantly revealed the coin in his hand. "And you were right, George, it didn't take long at all! They told me to come back tomorrow!"

George grinned. "Thought not. I knew it would work!"

"You know," Frances said thoughtfully, "if more than one of us could sneak off without being missed, we could bring in even more."

George nodded. "It's high risk," he pointed out. "But you make a good point."

"And if we get caught?" Daniel whispered, as if there were someone hiding in the grass, eavesdropping on their conversation.

The boys paused, considering. "I have an idea for that," George said, and brought them in for a huddle.

* * *

The next day, Mrs. Cooper dismissed the children for recess as usual at half eleven. About two minutes later, it was completely silent in the yard.

Frowning, Mrs. Cooper got up from her chair and made her way to the window, propping the pane open.

The yard was empty, save for one little girl standing along the fence. Her head was buried in her arm and she was counting, loudly. "…Eighteen, nineteen, twenty!" She whirled around with a grin. "Ready or not, here I come!" she yelled loudly. As Mrs. Cooper watched, Lucy, the young girl, prowled around the schoolyard until she came upon the corner of the school building. "Gotcha!" she called triumphantly, and two small children, laughing and pouting for being found, returned with Lucy to the fence and sat down.

 _Hide and seek_ , Mrs. Cooper thought. She smiled. _And they got the entire school to play_. _Impressive_. With that, she returned to her chair. Hopefully, they would all be found before classes resumed at noon.

* * *

George held out the empty can and Ben and Daniel dropped their coins into it. They made a rattling sound against the bottom. "Worked like a charm," Ben grinned. "At this rate, the can'll be full before Friday!"

"Imagine what we could do if we could do this the _whole_ day," Daniel said.

The boys paused. "Actually…" George cocked his head to the side, thinking. He tossed out an idea to the boys, and waited.

"We're gonna be _rich!_ " Frances crowed, and Ben whacked him on the shoulder.

"Hush up, b'y, the teacher'll hear."

* * *

Over the next few days, Mrs. Cooper noticed a slight spike in absent children from her classroom. Frances was gone Monday; Ben Pittman was ill Tuesday and Wednesday, and George Crabtree was sick, conveniently, on the Friday they were to present their essays. Hide and seek was still popular during recess, which also surprised her. Most schoolyard games lasted a few days, and then the younger and older children went their separate ways. In a way, she was happy, because the older children were paying attention to the younger ones and the younger ones thrived on that attention.

She'd also noticed that the boys who _were_ in school were…well, _helpful_ was an understatement.

 _Something isn't quite right_ , she thought to herself one afternoon as she administered a spelling test. Daniel Shaugnhessy was ill that day and George had graciously volunteered to take his words home to him so that he could study for the test and make it up the following day.

 _George._ Mrs. Cooper nodded thoughtfully. _I think perhaps it's time we had a conference with the Reverend Lovell._

* * *

"How was school today, George?" Rev. Lovell asked the boy that afternoon when he returned home. He was sitting out on the steps of their home, attempting to write his sermon for the following Sunday. George paused at the bottom of the steps, kicking at the leaves that had gathered on the sidewalk.

"Fine," he said after a moment. He fished in his pocket, and handed up a note to the Reverend. "Mrs. Cooper would like you to come to school tomorrow afternoon," he said. "After school."

The Reverend raised an eyebrow as he read the note's contents. "I see," he said. He looked at George. "Any idea why that might be?"

The boy shook his head and went into the house, leaving Rev. Lovell deep in thought on the steps, his sermon forgotten.

* * *

George's concentration was all over the following day. He couldn't remember who the King of England was, and he forgot whether Newfoundland was west or east of Canada. And he mispronounced a word during the reading as something _very_ inappropriate, and Mrs. Cooper kept him inside from recess.

By the time Rev. Lovell showed up at the end of the day, George was a wreck. He stared at the floor as he sat in his desk, refusing to make eye contact with Mrs. Cooper or the Reverend, who nodded a polite hello and set his hat down on Ben's desk by the door.

"Reverend," Mrs. Cooper stood to greet him. "Thank you for coming by today."

"No trouble, Mrs. Cooper," Rev. Lovell responded. He looked at George with concern. "Perhaps…perhaps you could tell me what's going on?"

Mrs. Cooper started by showing Rev. Lovell George's marks on his papers. He studied George's British Empire essay and frowned. "This is a good mark, correct?" he clarified, pointing to the paper. When the teacher nodded, he perused the rest of the work in front of him.

"Mrs. Cooper, I don't understand," he said. "George has excellent marks."

That was news to George. His head perked up, just a little.

"Yes, sir, he does indeed. It's the getting him to do the work that's the trick," Mrs. Cooper said. "George appears to have a very hard time concentrating on his work. He fidgets. He stares into space. It took him two days to write essay in your hand."

She reached into her desk drawer, and set something on her desktop. George's eyes widened.

"And then, there's this," she said. "I found this in young Mr. LeDoux's desk today, George." She handed the can to Rev. Lovell. It was halfway full of coins.

Rev. Lovell looked very lost. "I don't understand." He looked at George with his kind, blue eyes. "George?" he prompted. "Can you tell me what this is about?"

The boy swallowed. "Yes, sir," he whispered. Rev. Lovell leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees, waiting. "I-It's our profits. From our business."

"Your business?" Rev. Lovell clarified. George nodded. The reverend glanced sideways at Mrs. Cooper. "And what business would that be?"

"Um," George began. "Th-the one that I started. With the other b'ys in class."

"Reverend, the boys, I believe, have been up to something for almost two weeks now," Mrs. Cooper said. "My absences show me that one or more of them have missed school several days-including Mr. Crabtree, here."

 _That_ was news to Rev. Lovell. He looked at George with a frown. "You've skipped school, George?"

"Last Friday," was the response.

"But you left-you left our home in the morning," Rev. Lovell said. "George, where did you go?"

"Down to the docks," George replied. "To help empty the fishing nets." He took a breath, and then suddenly, it just all came flowing out. "B-Ben and I, we wanted to make some money, you see. And so after school, we was helping round town, collectin' leaves, sweeping storefronts, helping empty the nets at the docks and the like. A-and we was chargin' for our time. Then I got the idea that we should get more b'ys to do it with us, and we could split the profit between us all equally. A-and then Daniel, he thought, well, maybe if we could work _all_ day, we would earn more, an' I did the figures and we would almost double our profits in less time. If it were just one or two of us, gone for the day. Pretended to be sick or something. The others could cover, collect lessons and such. We could figure that in to our wages, maybe pay the person collecting homework a little extra…" He closed his eyes, thinking. "An' we would still come out ahead, you see." He opened his desk, produced a piece of paper from underneath his books. He handed it to the Reverend. "That's everything."

Rev. Lovell looked through the paper, and then wordlessly handed it to Mrs. Cooper, whose eyes widened in surprise. "George, you figured all this out?" she asked.

He nodded. "It wasn't hard. I like math." He looked at Mrs. Cooper. "I like everything else, too, Mrs. Cooper, it's just, I like it all of it at once." At her confused look, he explained. "I know the answer to the question, but while I'm thinkin' about that, I'm also thinkin' about our business, or why they built the pyramids as triangles and not some other shape, or how many King Edwards there are going to be in my lifetime, or why Frances didn't like me 'til he heard Ben and I were makin' money fixing fishing nets for his Pops-"

His eyes brimmed with tears. "I'm not stupid, I promise! I just can't think about only one thing at a time, and then I get made fun of because I get the answer wrong, or I-I think we're studying history when we're studying math, and I _just_ wanted the other b'ys to _like_ me more-"

George buried his head in his arms on his desk and sobbed. Rev. Lovell picked up his chair and slid it closer so he could wrap the boy in a hug.

Mrs. Cooper looked shellshocked. "I-I had no idea," she stammered.

Rev. Lovell looked at her over George's head. The nine-year-old was wrapped in his arms much as he had done when he was younger and gotten hurt exploring. "Mrs. Cooper," he said after a moment. "When you look at George's work…is he performing adequately for his age?"

She nodded. "Perhaps even higher, in some areas," she said. "He really is quite brilliant," she added with a small smile.

"I see." The Reverend patted George on the back, handed him a handkerchief to dry his eyes. "And George?" he questioned. "Your…business," he said. "Do you like the work?"

George nodded, sniffling. "Yes, sir," he said quietly. "I like that I can talk or use my hands or whistle or tap my foot or sing hymns and not get into trouble for it while I'm working." His ears tinged pink. "Plus I like the money, too," he whispered.

Rev. Lovell chuckled. "George, if you were to turn the business over to say, Benjamin Pittman, what would you charge?"

Mrs. Cooper frowned, leaning back in her chair. George bit his bottom lip. "Well," he said. "I would take my earnings a-as a severance," he began, scratching some numbers on the paper. "A-and then, because Benjamin is in charge of the figures, that's more work, so he ought to be paid a little more for that…" His tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth, and he handed over the paper to Rev. Lovell.

The Reverend's mouth twitched in a smile. "Mrs. Cooper," he said. "I realize that it's a bit unorthodox, but I'd like to remove George from school."

George's eyes widened. "Now, I understand," Rev. Lovell pressed on, as the teacher opened her mouth to speak, "that a child needs a good education, and you have been a wonderful teacher. George talks highly of you," he assured her, and the boy nodded vigorously. "However, a school building is not the only place that a child can receive an education. George has already proven that he has the knowledge to keep track of his own accounting, and though his methods were wrong-" He eyed George meaningfully.

George nodded. "I shouldn't have skipped school, or encouraged the other boys to. I'm sorry, Mrs. Cooper."

"Though his methods were wrong, he has shown good moral quality by confessing that to you and apologizing for it. I see no reason why George cannot continue to learn outside of this building." He stood up and shook Mrs. Cooper's hand. "George will finish out the week," he told her. "And I shall have one of his aunts pick him up Friday after school to help him bring his things home."

* * *

George still couldn't believe the events of the day as he walked with Rev. Lovell up the hill to the rectory. "So…no more school?"

Rev. Lovell shook his head. "Unless you'd like to, George, but I think you can also learn very much from the real world as well. After all, the disciples learned by following Jesus from town to town, and hearing His sermons and parables. You can learn about people by watching them, and listening to them. You can learn by reading the newspaper, or your books, or asking people questions. Or studying your Bible," he added with a raised eyebrow.

George was quiet for a moment, processing. Then, he looked up at the Reverend. "Reverend Lovell… _how_ do adults do that? Raise only one eyebrow? Is it…could you teach me?"

Rev. Lovell burst out laughing. "Of course, George. Of course. Now, let's go tell your aunts your news, shall we?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I don't remember what episode it was, but I swear somewhere in the series George says something like, "Oh, sir. I never made it past the fourth standard." Then in "Investigating Murdoch Mysteries," George's biography says something about him not attending school...soooo, I took a little divergence and creative liberty and sort of stuck them together. George Crabtree is not dumb or uneducated by any means, at least in my eyes, and I see the overactive imagination and the rest to be a little ADHD (obviously not known about at the time, of course).
> 
> Full disclaimer: I am no psychologist by any means, it's just a thought :)


	5. Summer, 1877

George Crabtree knew, at ten years old, that it wasn't exactly _manly_ to skip.

But seeing as this was the beginning of summer, he thought he might make an exception. Plus, it was faster than walking. He'd just left Ben Pittman's after spending the whole day with his father and him out on the boat fishing. His assignment from Rev. Lovell was to calculate how many pounds they had caught that day, and he had the answer, and he was fairly flying on his way back to the rectory. The day was cloudy, and the sun just barely peeked out from behind them every now and again, but to George, it was a perfect day.

It was just Newfoundland. It was just home.

He let himself in the back door near the kitchen, dropped his shoes by the door and snaked a biscuit off the cooling rack by the open window. He wanted to keep skipping but he knew that wasn't allowed in the house, so he forced himself to walk. None of the adults were in the kitchen or the parlor, and he wondered where everyone was.

 _Probably just as well_ , he thought, _seeing as how I have a stolen cookie in my hand._ He crammed it into his mouth. He stood in the parlor, careful to keep any wayward crumbs off of Aunt Dahlia's favorite rug. Then, he heard it. Voices, coming from upstairs. Brushing crumbs off his face, George climbed the stairs. He frowned. _It sounds like they're in my room_ , he thought. He got to the top of the stairs and made his way to the end of the hall.

The voices were louder as he got to 'his' door, and he noted, curiously, that the door was closed. He put his ear to the door, and listened.

"…can't keep him." That was Reverend Lovell.

"But what if his mother doesn't take him back?" One of his aunts…Ivy, maybe, or Azalea.

"He's not our concern, dear."

George froze. Slowly, he sat back on the floor, his heart pounding, tears stinging the corner of his eyes. _T-they…_

"George'll be home from school soon," he heard someone say through the door, and he scrambled to his feet, darting for the stairs and taking them two at a time to the main floor. He slid through the kitchen on socked feet, grabbed his shoes by the door and eased it open.

Then, he closed it deliberately behind him and took off at a run.

* * *

He didn't know how long he ran. George's lungs were aching and his blood pounded in his ears. He needed to stop. Needed to catch his breath. He skidded to a stop, putting a hand on the wall next to him to steady himself. His breath came in heaves, and he realized that not only had he been running, but he'd been crying.

_Can't keep him. He's not our concern._

George had always known that Reverend Lovell was not his father-he knew they had different last names. When he'd asked him about it once, the Reverend had just told him that he'd taken him in when he was in a baby, that his parents had asked him to watch over him. George had never questioned it. The Reverend was nice (well sometimes, he was really stern, but George knew that he probably deserved it in those instances), and he'd always treated him fairly.

And his aunts…Ben's father had made some comments once in passing about his 'aunts', and the way he'd said it implied to George that they weren't really related by blood. But they helped him with schoolwork and taught him to read and-and-

George slid to the ground and buried his head in his knees. He thought about Ben and his father. He knew Ben's mother had died when Ben was young and his father had raised him. Ben and his father fought sometimes, but he'd never heard Mr. Pittman want to get rid of Ben. _Ben's father loves him…what if…what if they don't love me anymore?_

 _I don't know what I did. They want to give me away but I didn't do anything wrong…_ He'd been enjoying the past year or so learning at home from school…maybe he wasn't a good student at home. Maybe the Reverend was secretly mad about what had happened last fall with him and the other boys. _But he never said anything, and he would tell me…right?_

_But what if his mother doesn't take him back?_

George lifted his head off his arms, brushed a lock of hair off his forehead. Rev. Lovell had never told him anything about his parents. He didn't have any pictures of them or anything. _Why did they give me up?_ he wondered. _Was I not a good baby? Did I cry a lot? Did I make a mess? Or….or did they just not want me? Was I a burden?_

Angrily, he brushed his tears away. "Fine," he said aloud. "Fine!" he yelled. His voice echoed off the buildings around him. _I don't need them. I can take care of myself. I-I can get a job, I can live in a boarding house. Or I can buy my own house. And Aunt Dahlia taught me how to cook some stuff, I can get by._

_I don't need them._

* * *

Rev. Lovell was beside himself, pacing the aisles of the church, praying. _Lord, please take care of him. Please watch over him and bring him home safely._

He stopped short at the sight of a dark head of hair sitting at the front of the aisle in front of the large portrait of Jesus. _George_?

Whoever it was, they were praying.

"Lord, thank you for the nice weather today for being out on the boat with Ben and his papa. We caught a hundred and twenty-seven pounds of fish today-" He sniffed. "Ben is a really good friend. I'm glad he still plays with me even though I'm not in school anymore."

Rev. Lovell smiled faintly. _Thank you, Lord, for Benjamin Pittman_ , he thought to himself.

George was quiet for a moment. Then, he said, "Lord…I-I wanted to ask you for a favor, because in the Bible it says 'ask and ye shall receive,' so…" His voice caught, and the reverend realized that George was _crying_. He frowned and walked a little closer, as the boy's voice had gotten too low to carry.

"I-I want to apologize for my sins, Lord, and ask forgiveness."

Reverend Lovell slid into a pew, and listened some more.

"I don't know what I did, b-but you know everything and so whatever I-I did, I want to say I'm sorry. I don't know why Reverend Lovell and my aunts are mad at me, and why they want to give me b-back-"

 _What?_ The Reverend gasped inaudibly and leaned forward.

"I-anyway, if you could maybe tell the Reverend and m-my aunts that I still l-love them, and-"

"George."

He jerked at the sound of his name. He looked up to see the Reverend sitting in the pew behind him. He sniffled and stood up, crossing his arms and looking at the older man. The Reverend saw the emotion on his face. "George…what is all this?" he asked, motioning to him. "We've been worried sick about you!"

George looked at him. "Why?"

The reverend seemed taken aback by his tone of voice and the question. "Why?" the reverend repeated. "George, you didn't come home from Benjamin's when you said you were going to."

"Yes, I did," George countered. "I came home and I _heard_ you!"

Rev. Lovell stood up and came to sit in the front pew. "Heard us?" he said. "George, whatever are you talking about?"

George looked at him darkly. "I heard you say you're going to give me back to my mother."

"Give you back…" Realization dawned on the his face. "George," he said. He was trying not to smile, because he knew that would upset the boy more. "George, tell me everything that happened when you got home today, please."

George looked at him as though he was daft. "I came home from Ben's," he said slowly. "I went upstairs. And you were all in my room. You said that we can't keep him, and then one of my aunts wanted to know what would happen if my mother didn't take me back, and then someone else said that I wasn't your concern!"

Rev. Lovell looked impressed. "You heard all that?" he asked.

"Yes, I did," George informed him. "And it's all right," he said. "I can take care of myself," he said. "My mama and papa didn't want me, and neither do you, and I can…" His voice faltered. "I can-" His voice cracked, and he burst into tears.

Rev. Lovell grasped him and pulled him into a hug as the boy sobbed into his collar. "Oh, George," he whispered. "This is just a misunderstanding," he told him. "What you heard…it wasn't what you really heard."

"I don't understand," George's voice was muffled by the reverend's shirt.

Rev. Lovell held onto his arms and pulled him up gently. "George. Your aunts and I…well…" He smiled, and shook his head. "Come with me, George." He grabbed the boy's hand, much as he'd done when George was small, and led George out of the church and across the lawn to the rectory. In the backyard, Rev. Lovell led him over to a large spruce that shaded the back half of the house. "Here, George. Look here." He gestured to a V in the tree's trunk. George had to stand on his tiptoes to see what the reverend was looking at. It was pretty high up, and the Reverend motioned for him to climb up. "Carefully," he cautioned.

George was still sad, and mad, but his curiosity got the better of him. Carefully, he scaled the tree up to the V in the trunk and looked. In the V of the tree was a bird's nest. Inside the nest was a fluffy baby bird. "It's a nuthatch!" George called down.

Rev. Lovell nodded. "Very good, George. Now, please come back down here so I can finish explaining," he said.

George climbed back down and jumped the last few feet to the ground. He looked up at the reverend expectantly. _I don't see what a baby bird has to do with anything_.

"George, that baby bird fell out of the tree this morning," the reverend explained. "Your Aunt Iris found him lying in the grass today. She brought him inside and up to your room, thinking he would make a good pet for you to observe as it got older."

George waited. "But your Aunt Azalea heard it chirping in your room, and there was a great discussion over whether or not you should be allowed to keep it, because its' mother might be missing it."

He sat down and motioned for George to sit next to him in the grass. "George, I always knew someday that you might wonder how you came to be with all of us. I never wished to keep it secret from you, and I'm so very sorry that you misunderstood us this afternoon. I can understand how you might have thought what you did."

"Did my mama not want me?" George asked him. "Will you…can you tell me?"

Rev. Lovell nodded. "Do you remember the boat from Canada to Newfoundland?" he asked him, and George nodded. "Well, for the first few years of your life, we lived in Toronto, in the province of Ontario. I was a pastor at St. James church there. And one day, I heard crying on the steps. When I opened the door, there you were, on the steps."

George looked at him, listening intently. "When I took you to the hospital to have them look you over and to see how old you were, or if anyone had reported you missing, they told me that you were just barely born," Rev. Lovell continued. "You had a note with you," he said. "I think it might have been from your mother. It said that your name was George Crabtree, and that I was to give you the best I could."

He brushed George's hair back. "And so I have. George, you are _not_ my son, not biologically. But I love you as if you were," he promised him. "Just like Joseph loved baby Jesus even though He wasn't truly his son. You came into my life at a time when I was very sad and I needed someone. I think it was God answering _my_ prayers." He looked like he wanted to say more, but he didn't. Instead, he pointed to the house. "And your aunts- _all_ of them, they love you just like you were really their nephew as well. You are _very_ loved, George."

"But…why didn't my mama want me? Didn't _she_ love me?" George wriggled into the trunk of the tree and Rev. Lovell put his arm around him.

"Oh, I think she did, and I think it's because she did that she gave you to me to find," he said. "You see, George, all parents want the very best for their children. They want them to feel loved, and have enough to eat, and to go to school, and to have friends, and grow up to be good men and women. But sometimes, sometimes life is very hard. And then parents worry that they cannot give those things to their children, and they get scared. So they put them with people who can do that for them."

He gave George a hug. "Your mother wanted all those things for you, George Crabtree. But she was scared, I think. And so she entrusted you to me. Her note said to look after you, and that is what I have done." He was quiet for a moment. "Did…does that help, George? Does it help you understand? This is a lot for a young man, even one as smart as you."

George closed his eyes, listening to the birds in the trees and the wind, thinking. Then, he looked up at the Reverend. "Do you think Jesus called Joseph Papa?" he asked.

Rev. Lovell smiled. "I think he must have," he decided after a moment.

George nodded. "W-would it be okay if I sometimes called _you_ Papa?" he asked.

Rev. Lovell coughed. "I…well, George…I think if you'd really like to, you could," he said. "It does seem silly for you to call me Reverend Lovell all the time, doesn't it?"

George nodded again. "Yes," he said. "Papa."

The two of them looked at each other, and then George burst out in a gale of laughter. "That sounds _really_ silly!" he proclaimed.

"It does, at that," Rev. Lovell agreed. He thought for a moment. "What if…what if you tried calling me John?" he asked him. "That _is_ my Christian name, after all."

George mulled that over. "John. John." He looked up at the reverend. "Reverend John," he decided. "I-if that's all right? Because Aunt Azalea says to call people by their title, like she's Aunt Azalea to me and Miss Azalea to the others, and you're Reverend Lovell at church, and Mrs. Cooper at school was Mrs. Cooper, and-"

The reverend held up a hand with a smile. "Reverend John would be just fine," he told George. "Just fine." He stood up and offered a hand to George to pull him up. "Now, how about we go sample some of Aunt Dahlia's biscuits before supper?"

"They're really good!" George proclaimed, then clapped his hands over his mouth and gave Reverend John a guilty look.

Reverend John shook his head with a chuckle. "I won't tell if you won't," he whispered conspiratorially. "And George?" he added before they went inside. "If you ever want to talk about this again, we sure can."

George looked up at him. "All right," he said. "But right now…" He looked at the rectory, and back to Reverend John. "Right now, I would like to spend time with my family." With that, he dashed ahead into the house.


	6. Summer, 1880

"George Crabtree, you slow down or so help me I will lock you in your room for a week!"

The tall, lanky teenager grinned and stopped where he was, grinning back at his Aunt Azalea. "Come on now, Auntie," he teased her, "surely you have more stamina than that?"

Azalea rolled her eyes at his cheek. "For some things, _yes_ ," she informed him. "Running like a fool in the grass, definitely _not_!"

George grinned as he rolled up his shirt sleeves and adjusted his cap. "I'm sorry, Aunt Azalea," he apologized.

"No, you're not," Azalea countered, then shook her head with a smile. "Now offer this old woman an arm like a respectable gentleman, would you?"

"Yes, ma'am," George replied politely as his aunt took his arm. The two of them walked down the path toward Quidi Vidi Lake at a more leisurely pace. It was a rare day in St. John; the sky was an impeccable blue and there were no signs of clouds in sight. The grass was bursting with wildflowers and the lake was like glass as it came into view over the rise.

George loved regatta day. The Royal St. John's Regatta was a civic holiday in St. John's; almost the entire city was down on the shores of the lake to watch the rowers. Along the path, colorful tents were spaced every few feet, with carnival games and games of chance. Vendors sold lemonade and sandwiches and baked treats to the populace. George could feel the money he'd received from Reverend John burning a hole in his shirt pocket.

"What shall we do first?" he asked his aunt as they threaded their way through the crowds. "Personally, I like the ring toss, but I know you've a mind to have your fortunes told- _oh!_ "

George had to let go of his aunt's arm in order to grab hold of the young woman who had just tripped over something and landed full in his arms. He staggered under the surprise weight and struggled to stay upright. "Watch where you're-"

The girl looked up at him from under her straw hat, and George suddenly found he'd forgotten how to speak. She looked to be about his age, thirteen, tall, like himself, with blue eyes and bright blonde hair. She wore a bright blue pleated dress that matched her eyes, with a bright white ribbon around her midsection. A purse was wrapped around her wrist.

She looked at him, cheeks pink and eyes wide. "I do apologize!" she gasped. "How clumsy of me, I must have tripped over my own shoe!"

George stared. She was beautiful. "-and the ground was uneven and I fell right into you, and you broke my fall, and I'm so embarrassed!" He blinked, realizing that she was still apologizing to him.

And he was still holding onto her. Quickly, he dropped his arms, running one hand through his dark hair awkwardly and shoving the other into his trousers pocket. "I-it's fine," he stammered. "Perfectly f-fine. I appear to still be in one piece, as do you."

"Thanks to you," she said gratefully. "I, um, my name is Libby."

George opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Aunt Azalea, who had been watching the exchange with interest, nudged George in the side with her elbow. He yelped. "George!" he practically shouted. Then, calmer, "My name is George. Crabtree."

"Well, thank you again, George Crabtree," Libby said. She smiled brightly at him. "You're a good boy to have around in a pinch," she added.

"George," Aunt Azalea spoke up, "why don't you and Libby go enjoy the carnival?"

George felt his ears getting hot, and it wasn't the sun. "Oh, b-but Aunt Azalea," he said, "I came here with you, and-"

"Nonsense," Azalea waved him off. "You don't want to spend time waiting for me to have my future foretold when it's such a beautiful day. Go on, you two enjoy yourselves. Perhaps we could meet up in a few hours to watch the last few races of the day."

George looked over at Libby, who bit her lip and looked down at her feet shyly. "Are you sure?" he asked his aunt.

Azalea winked. "Go on, George. We'll see you in awhile." With that, she sashayed away into the throng of people, leaving George standing with Libby in the grass.

The two of them stood awkwardly for a moment or two. "Soo…" George stuttered. "Do you fancy the ring toss?"

"Oh, I have horrible luck," Libby told him. "But…I'll cheer you on," she added with a smile.

Remembering his Aunt Azalea's words, George offered his arm to the young lady, and the two teenagers made their way over to the booth. "Let me pay for your turn, George," Libby said. "To make up for tripping into you earlier." She handed a coin to the vendor.

 _All right George,_ he thought as he accepted the rings. _No pressure, but the lady is watching_ …

He was so intent on his turn, that he missed the commotion a few booths down as a man was shouting, "My watch! Someone has stolen my watch!"

* * *

George was having a _wonderful_ day. He and Libby had walked almost the entire length of the carnival and were now walking down toward the lake, where the first race was just finishing. The crowd erupted in cheers as the boats crossed the finish line.

"I think we can get a better view if we get down by the water's edge," George suggested to Libby. She stopped short, so quickly that he almost fell over yet again.

"I-I'd rather we didn't," she said quickly. Off George's confused look, she added, "I can't swim."

He looked at her strangely. "The water's very shallow by the shore," he told her.

Libby shook her head. "Please. It makes me nervous to even _look_ at it." Her hands fiddled with her dress. "Perhaps we could just take a walk through the crowd…over to that hill, maybe?" She pointed to a rise a little further down.

"Uh, of course," George said. He offered her his hand again, but she shook her head.

"My hands are…well, they're a bit sweaty," she said. "I-I don't mean that I'm not enjoying it, because I am, I just…it's hot."

"Oh. Uh, right," George said. "I-yes, mine too." He shoved them into his pockets. "You know, maybe I should go get us a lemonade?" he offered.

"George-"

He was already backing away, stumbling into someone behind him. "I, um, I'll be right back," he said with a grin, and then practically turned and ran.

He found his way back to the carnival, where there was quite a lot of commotion.

"My wallet has gone missing!"

"I can't find my bracelet!"

"My watch is gone!"

George looked at all the people, who were crowded around a pair of constables in the center of the carnival. All of them seemed to be missing something from their person. _Someone is stealing from people at the regatta?_ George couldn't believe it. Today was a holiday, it was meant for fun and entertainment. Why would someone want to take advantage of that?

 _Then again_ , he reasoned, _with so many people, from all sorts of classes, it is basically a feeding ground for someone who might take advantage of just that_. He sighed, and went over to the vendor who was selling the lemonades. "Two, please," he said.

The vendor gave him the price, and George reached into his shirt pocket.

Only to find that there was nothing there. He dug his fingers in harder, as if it had somehow absorbed into his cotton shirt. But there was nothing there.

His money from Reverend John was gone.

The vendor was looking at him expectantly, and George felt his whole face get hot. "I…it would appear I don't have enough," he said, backing away apologetically.

"Oy!" a voice said from behind him, and George whirled around to see the constable eyeing him curiously. "What are you doing there, sonny?"

George swallowed. "I-I would like to report a robbery," he stammered. "Someone has stolen my money."

The constable, a tall man with a trim black moustache and dark hair, studied him. "Say. Don't I know you from somewhere?"

George shook his head. "No, b'y." He gulped. "I mean, no sir. At least, I don't think so."

The constable snapped his fingers and broke into a smile. "George. You're George, right? You live at the rectory with the reverend?"

George blinked. "I, we don't _live_ there, we live in a little house down the street, and I sometimes stay with my aunts there, but yes, my name is George and-"

The constable smiled at him, and George suddenly had a flash. _A cold morning, lying in the parlor. A constable sitting next to him, laughing as he described searching for a sasquatch-_ "Constable Ashbury?" he asked, and the older man grinned.

"I _knew_ it, I knew you looked familiar. It's been a long time, George Crabtree. Have you given up on your search for the sasquatch?" he asked in his British lilt.

George nodded…then shook his head, and Constable Ashbury laughed. "Well, at least I'm not havin' to go hunt for you in the snow," he said. "Are you-"

There was a shout from near the water. A scream, and then a splash. _That sounded as if-_ "Libby!" George gasped, and turned around and bolted for the lake, Constable Ashbury hot on his heels. George shoved his way through the crowds as fast as he could go. There was no sign of Libby where he'd left her, but several people were pointing over the side of the hill toward the water. "Libby!" George called.

"George, wait!" Constable Ashbury called after him, but George was already tugging his suspenders off his shoulders.

"She can't swim!" he yelled, and jumped feet-first into the water. Libby was floating just off shore, in a place George knew from sneaking off with Daniel, Ben and the other boys, that dropped off sharply from the shore. He paddled over to her, and grabbed her under the arms to flip her over. Her purse floated limply beside her. He half swam, half dragged Libby over to the beach, where a crowd had gathered.

Constable Ashbury and two other men were there to pull them out. "What the hell happened?" Ashbury demanded.

A stout woman pointed a finger at two men. "Them two was fightin' 'bout the winner o' the last race," she accused. "Got to shovin' and knocked her over, they did!"

"She's not breathing," George whispered. He looked at the constable desperately. "Please, you have to help her!" He shook Libby's arm. "Libby, _please_ ," he begged her.

"George, let go now," Ashbury commanded him. George let go as Ashbury rolled Libby onto her side. George sat in the sand, the hot sun already baking the water off him, as he watched Ashbury place her head under her hands, then proceeded to slap her on the back. Hard. Repeatedly.

George waited with baited breath. _Please, please, please Libby, please be okay_ …. The constable was still smacking her on the back. "Come on, young miss," Ashbury was muttering.

Libby coughed, spitting water onto the sand. Someone in the crowd applauded, and it rippled through the entire crowd before some other constables pushed them all away to give the three on the beach some room.

Libby opened her eyes as the constable helped her sit up. She looked beautiful, George thought, even completely soaked through. "You're all right!" he breathed.

She smiled faintly at him, then turned to the constable. "You-you saved me," she said. "I-I don't know how to-Oh. Oh!" She was pulling off her purse, turning it over and dumping the waterlogged contents to the sand. "I-I need to-"

George looked at the pile. A couple of watches, a wallet, a bracelet…and a pile of money in both coins and bills. He turned his gaze to Libby. "It was _you_?" he gasped. "You were the one stealing from everyone at the carnival?"

She nodded, tears trickling down her face. "Yes, George, it was," she said, "but I-I want to give it all back," she added, looking up at Constable Ashbury. "I'm sorry. I didn't…I wanted it for my family, my father's laid up at home and my mother-"

George felt a stab of anger. _Here she is, making excuses!_ All that time walking through the carnival, and she had been stealing from people as they went! It was wrong. She should go to jail. _But…_

Constable Ashbury was shaking his head. "Is this everything, young lady?" he asked her quietly.

She nodded emphatically. "Yes. Everything I took today, it's all there. Even your-your money, George. I'm so sorry. You shouldn't have saved me, I stole your coins from you."

George looked up at Constable Ashbury. "Are you _really_ sorry, Libby?" George asked her.

Libby sniffed, nodding sorrowfully. "What you did, that was _wrong_ ," George began. "But, but you had a change of heart, and I think…" He looked at Constable Ashbury. "I think she's truly sorry, Constable. I don't think she'll do it again. A-and she almost just died, there, so…could she just give everything back and not get into trouble?" he pleaded with the constable.

The constable looked between the two teenagers. "George, what Miss Libby did was a crime," he said. "She knew it was wrong, and she did it anyway." He pulled the girl to her feet. "But," he added, as he let go of Libby's hands, "because of the circumstances…" He looked at her sternly. "Young miss, I am going to let you go this _one time_ ," Ashbury stressed. "But only this once. You took advantage of a fine young man today, and plenty of other innocent people just here to enjoy the regatta. However…" He looked at George, now. "This young man is vouching for you, and so it is also his reputation on the line if you misbehave again. I trust that since this young man saved your life, that you will follow his example and try to do better? There are other ways to get your family the help they need."

Libby brushed her tears away and nodded. "In fact, if you would come find me later at the station, perhaps we can work something out with your family," he added, and Libby's eyes lit up. "Well, then," Ashbury told the two of them. "Go on. Enjoy the rest of the carnival. And make sure you put those things _back where they belong_ ," he added meaningfully.

The two teenagers nodded. George helped Libby scoop the stolen items back into her purse. She reached inside and handed him back his coins. "These are yours," she said.

George nodded. "Thank you," he told her. "Go ahead; I'll catch up with you in a moment." Libby started for the carnival, and George tapped Constable Ashbury on the shoulder.

"Yes, George?" Ashbury asked him.

"Sir, I was just wondering…you're a constable. Isn't it your duty to arrest criminals? Why did you let her go?"

The constable stroked his moustache. "Well, George, I suppose because Libby learned her lesson. Her crime was wrong, and I should have arrested her, but sometimes, as a constable, you have to make a different call, because that is the right thing to do."

George bit his lip. "I see," he said thoughtfully. "Thank you," he added, before running to catch up with Libby.

Constable Ashbury nodded. "A fine young man, indeed," he said to himself. Then, he brushed the sand off his trousers, and went on his way, watching George and Libby return the stolen items to their rightful owners.

And smiled when George bought the young lady a lemonade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Royal St. John's Regatta is an actual event, some say it dates all the way back to 1816, or even before. It is the only holiday in North America contingent on the weather and is normally held the first Wednesday in August. Also, apparently, it's only a holiday in St. John :) Check it out online, it's got some interesting history. Couldn't find any historical evidence for a pickpocket named Libby though ;)


	7. Winter, 1881

The lamps were just being lit, giving the streets a bright glow. Along the sidewalks, candles glowed in storefront windows and green wreaths and holly bedecked awnings, doorways, and windows were trimmed in greenery or red and green ribbons. Snow was just starting to fall, giving everything the look of a painting, or a Christmas tin or packaging.

Had it been under any other circumstances, George would have walked a little slower home from the market to take it all in. He was fourteen, but Christmas had never lost its' magic for him. Tonight, though, he was fairly sprinting to get home to the little house he shared with Reverend John. He barely felt it in his legs as he ran; years of ascending and descending the hilly streets of St. John's keeping him in good shape. His boots thudded on the gravel and dirt. The snow was coming down harder as he made it to the bottom of Flower Hill and the small, square, rust-red home came into view. He balanced the packages from the market expertly in one hand and opened the door with the other. George didn't bother to take off his boots, barely remembered to close the door behind him. Inside the tiny kitchen, he practically threw the packages onto the table, filled the kettle, and put it on for the tea that he knew was in the package… _somewhere…which one…ah!_ He pulled out the tin and tapped his foot anxiously while he waited. George wasn't patient. He never had been. _Tonight of all nights_ … _it would take time to warm up…_

The Reverend's voice echoed in his ears. _A watched pot never boils, George_.

 _And apparently, watched tea kettles don't whistle_ , George huffed. While he waited on the kettle, he shucked his boots and tossed them in the corner, then made his way to the bedroom in the back of the house. The door was closed, and George frowned. _Not a good sign_. He knocked gently, then cracked the door open. "Reverend John?" he whispered. He didn't dare turn on the light, so he used the light from the main room to locate a candle and lit that instead.

Reverend John lay in bed, the covers pulled up to his chin. George's breath caught as he set the candle down on the dresser and went over to the bed, pulling up the desk chair and straddling it. He felt the older man's forehead. _Hot._ Just like it had been for the past several days. George went back to the kitchen and filled a bowl with cold water, grabbed a dishcloth, and returned back to the bedroom, squeezing the excess water from the cloth and setting it on Reverend John's forehead.

The older man opened his eyes and squinted at George in the dim light. "George."

George smiled at him. "What're ya at?" he questioned him, taking the wet cloth and patting down the reverend's glistening face.

Reverend John closed his eyes again and sighed deeply. "This is it," he replied, and the reply instigated a coughing fit that took him several seconds to get over.

George heard the kettle in the kitchen whistling incessantly, but found that his legs felt like lead. "I-I'll be a moment," he stammered, replacing the cloth on the reverend's head. He nearly tripped getting out of the chair and managed to make it into the kitchen, make two cups of tea without incident, and bring them back to the bedroom. He helped Reverend John to a more upright position, propping a couple of pillows behind him so that he could sit up, and helped him with the tea. The two were silent for several minutes, sipping tea in silence.

"H-how was your day?" Reverend John asked George.

George set his cup down. "I asked for a few days off," he admitted. "I don't like leaving you here alone like this."

"George-"

George held up a hand. "No. You have all the makings of a fine case of pneumonia, Reverend. Lousy Christmas present, if you ask me," he added. "And anyway, the Pittmans won't be out because of some forecasted storms and the holiday, so I'm not leavin' the b'ys shorthanded or anything." He looked down at the reverend. "Aunt Azalea said she'd be by tomorrow with some of Aunt Ivy's soup and some gifts from the ladies." He smiled. "Face it, sir, for the foreseeable future, our roles are reversed."

"You've grown into quite the young man," Reverend John whispered. "It truly was a blessing the day the Lord gave you to me."

George bit his bottom lip and poured himself a second cup of tea. "Rest," he told the reverend. "You need your rest."

The reverend closed his eyes and George reached into the drawer and pulled out a worn Bible. "Perhaps we'll do some reading," he said, and flicked the book open to somewhere in the middle of Psalms. "The Lord on high is mightier than the noise of many waters," he began, "yea, than the mighty waves of the sea. Thy testimonies are very sure-"

He looked down at the reverend. He was asleep again, his breaths coming in short, ragged bursts. George set the cups on the desk and settled into the chair, clasping his hands together and bowing his head.

 _The Lord on high is mighty_. _Please Lord,_ George prayed, _please watch over Reverend John. He is a blessing to me, too. I don't know what I'd do if something happened to him._

* * *

December 24 dawned cloudy and gray. The snow had settled in over St. John's and several inches had accumulated overnight. The candle had burned down nearly to the candlestick. George awoke in the chair by the bed with a crick in his neck and stiff knees from having them drawn up to his chest all night.

He yawned, and immediately looked after the reverend. Reverend John was still asleep; George felt his forehead again, and went to replace the cloth with fresh water. The man was still warm and George filled the bowl with snow from outside in the yard, pausing only a moment to take in the winter landscape around him. No carriages had been by; no one had been walking down the street, and everything was pristine and beautiful. The trees were coated in a light layer of snow, and it was still falling. St. John's was silent.

George brought the bowl back inside and into the bedroom, then went into the kitchen to hear up water and some milk for some oatmeal. While he waited for it to boil, he looked around the little house. Today was December 24, Christmas Eve. And the house didn't look festive at _all_. George had been too busy with work and the reverend too sick. George was sure the church's décor was lacking as well, but surely the Lord would understand, just this once.

George woke Reverend John up for some oatmeal and tea and then the older man immediately went back to bed. George finished his breakfast and left the dishes on the dresser top, too tired from lack of sleep the night before to want to do dishes.

In fact, when Azalea knocked an hour later and no one answered, she let herself in out of concern and found George curled up, head resting on his arm on the dresser, knees drawn to his chest, and out like a light.

She shook him gently. "Georgie, you need to wake up, love," she scolded him gently. "You can't sleep like that." The boy opened one eye and glanced at her, then the other.

"Aunt Azalea?" George rubbed his eyes. "I-I didn't hear you come in," he said.

Azalea tsked. "No, I'd imagine you didn't hear much of anything, you were dead to the world," she told him. She studied him. "Those were the same clothes you delivered my flour in yesterday, and what's with all the dirty dishes?" She pulled the teen to his feet. "You go on," she said. "Bath. Fresh clothes. You need to take care of yourself, Georgie, or you're no good to Reverend Lovell." She gave him a push toward the door. "And take those dirty dishes with you!"

She tended to the Reverend while George took care of himself, and smiled when she heard George singing, "Immanuel" at the top of his lungs from the kitchen, accompanied by the clink of dishes.

Azalea looked down at the reverend, who was sweating profusely again. "That boy is a gem," she told the reverend. "Always lookin' after others before himself."

A few hours later, George and Azalea sat at the tiny table, Aunt Ivy's soup still steaming in the pot on the stove. George was on his second bowl, chuckling as Aunt Azalea regaled him with the latest story from up the hill. After a moment, he got quiet again, and became very interested in the patterns he could make in the broth with his spoon.

Azalea watched him. George was hardly every quiet, unless he was reading, or thinking up some great scheme. "George?" she ventured.

His spoon dropped with a clatter. "Wha-sorry," he apologized. "I-I was just-"

Azalea waited. "Aunt Azalea…" George began, but instantly clammed up again.

"Yes, dear?" she asked him.

He didn't speak. Then, he mumbled something so faint that Azalea hadn't heard a word of it. "George," she prompted. "Speak clearly. These old ears aren't what they used to be!"

George looked up at her sharp tone. "Is…will Reverend John be all right?"

Azalea considered her answer. "He's very sick, as you know, George," she said.

He nodded. "Pneumonia. It's going around the city. He probably got it at church, there were a lot of people coughing last week during the service. It's a virus, so it spreads very easily." He glanced at Aunt Azalea. "I read it in the paper," he explained. She nodded, and motioned for him to continue. "Aunt Azalea…what would happen to me if-if-"

She shook her head. "Don't pay to be thinking like that, Georgie," she told him. "He's got you to take care of him, and us to take care of you. The two of you will be just fine."

"He's the only father I've got," George burst out. "I love him like a father; I can't lose him!"

He buried his head in his hands on the table, sobbing. Azalea pushed back her chair and came around to the other side. "Oh, Georgie," she whispered. "We all know you do. It's plain as anything. And he loves you like a son, he's told you so. The Lord put you two together for a reason," she said, rubbing his back gently. "I don't believe for a moment that He meant for either of you to walk this world alone, that's why he brought you to the reverend in Toronto, and why He brought the both of ya to Newfoundland." She ran a hand through his dark hair. "Now. You finish eating. I'm going to check in on Reverend John for you. I want that bowl empty when I get back in here."

She paused at the door, listening until she heard the sobbing turn to sniffles and the sound of a spoon against the bowl. Azalea made her way into the bedroom and closed the door so there was just a crack open. She felt the Reverend's forehead and wiped the sweat from his face and hands. "You get better," she whispered to him. "You've got a young man out there that loves you very much and needs you. He doesn't need abandoning twice in one lifetime."

Azalea left a few hours later, with the promise to return if George needed her for anything. George spent the afternoon checking in on the Reverend and trying not to panic at the sound of his coughing fits. He read a little in his book of the paranormal, and hummed Christmas carols to himself while watching the snow.

But mostly, he worried.

 _Tomorrow is Christmas, Lord. I don't want anything else this year but for Reverend John to be well_ , he thought to himself as he watched the daylight fade away. _He has to be well._

He fell asleep in the reverend's armchair thinking that thought over and over again.

* * *

George awoke the following morning with a face full of sunshine in the form of Aunt Dahlia. "Good morning, Georgie!" she greeted him warmly. "Merry Christmas!"

He blinked, trying to clear his foggy thoughts. "A-Aunt Dahlia? What are you-"

"Merry Christmas, George!"

George craned his neck to see Aunt Azalea leaning against the back of the chair. He could smell something wonderful coming from the kitchen, and he realized there were voices in the kitchen-Aunt Primrose and Aunt Iris, perhaps? He couldn't help the wide smile that broke across his face. "Merry Christmas," he said sleepily.

He bolted to his feet. "Reverend John, is he-"

Dahlia glanced at Azalea. "Why don't you go see for yourself?" Aunt Azalea suggested, and George half-ran, half-stumbled to the bedroom.

Aunt Ivy was sitting in the chair reading from the gospel of Luke…and Reverend John was propped up in bed, listening.

George threw himself into bed with him and crushed him with a hug. "Oh, oh, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean-" he stammered, immediately backing off when the Reverend started to cough again, though, George realized, it wasn't as deep-seated as the days prior. The Reverend was smiling at him, and George felt a peace he hadn't felt in the last few days come over him.

"Good morning, George," Reverend John told him.

George grinned. "You sound much better."

Reverend John tilted his head toward Aunt Ivy. "Your aunt has a wonderful herbal remedy that appears to be working," he told him.

"My own mother swore by it," Ivy assured the two of them. "Few more days, he'll be preachin' from the pulpit once again." She closed the Bible and set it down. "Think I'll give you two some privacy and see about the breakfast," she said, closing the door behind her.

George looked at the Reverend. "I was scared," he admitted. "I didn't know…you were-"

"I was, too," Reverend John interrupted quietly. "But things have a way of working out the way they're supposed to, now don't they, when it comes to you and me?" From the kitchen the two of them heard a crash, and Aunt Primrose arguing about something loudly. The two men chuckled.

"You know, George," the reverend began softly. "I've never told you about…about my life before I met you."

George leaned back against the wall, looking intently at the older man. "I haven't always been a pastor, George," Reverend John said. "I used to work in a lumber mill. I think I may have made the boards for the pews in the very church I met you in." He looked at the teenager. "I had a wife, and a daughter." He reached a shaky hand for the Bible, and George grabbed it for him. The reverend thumbed through the pages and pulled out a small, oval-shaped photograph. "This is my Lucille," he said. "And my Anna."

George studied the photo. Lucille Lovell had dark eyes and dark hair, while Anna had lighter hair more like the reverend. "What happened to them?" he asked. "I-if it's all right to ask?"

Reverend John nodded. "It's all right, George," he told him. "They both passed away in the same winter. Pneumonia, just like you so astutely diagnosed with myself."

George realized now just how scared Reverend John must have been! He had been left alone, just like George…and he had been sick just like his wife and his daughter... _Lots of parallels_ , George thought to himself.

"I was very lost for a long time, George," Reverend John continued. "Until one day, I asked the Lord to help me. I became a pastor, and found my way to St. James's Church." He grasped George's hand. "Where I met you. A wonderful young man who thinks of others before himself, and who gave me a second chance…to be a father once again."

"You're the only father I've ever known," George said. "I think that the Lord put us together for a reason," he said thoughtfully. "We…we're like pieces in a puzzle. We fill the holes in each other's hearts. He knew I'd need someone to look after me…and He knew that you needed someone to make sure you'd be all right, too."

He smiled. "And I think that my aunts all fit in the puzzle as well just…in different places." From in the kitchen, they heard a crash, and giggling and scolding. "No matter where I go or what I do," George promised Reverend John, "I hope that I'll be able to look out for people and make them safe, like the way you and my aunts have always done for me."

"I have no doubt you will accomplish great things, George Crabtree," Reverend John assured him. "Merry Christmas, son."

George gave him a hug, but gentler this time. "Merry Christmas, Reverend John."


	8. Spring, 1883

" _Toronto_?"

Dahlia's eyes went wide and she exchanged a horrified glance with Azalea, Ivy, and Daisy.

Primrose leaned against the mantle and crossed her arms over her blouse. She glanced over at Petunia. "Yes, Dahlia. Toronto. Very good," she said, raising an eyebrow at the other woman. "Shall we try 'Ottawa' next?"

"Oi, Rosie, don't be like that," Daisy pleaded. "We're just surprised is all!"

"First Pearl, then Nettle, Magnolia, Begonia and Clematis, everybody's leavin'!" Dahlia cried.

"Begonia got married and moved, that's not quite the same," Daisy argued.

"Yes she did, and then she died laughin' at that idiot Cal who didn't know how to balance on a three-legged stool," Primrose countered. "Knew that man'd be the death of her."

"Rosie!" Ivy gasped.

"What'll become of the Flower Girls of Flower Hill?" Dahlia wondered in dismay.

Petunia rolled her eyes. "Oh, there'll still be plenty of flowers here for the men to pluck," she said flatly. Ivy opened her mouth to say something, but Petunia held up a finger. "The fact is, girls, we're just lookin' for a change of scenery. _Some of us_ ," she stressed, with a side glance at Primrose, "don't have the ah, the _stamina_ , as others anymore."

Azalea burst out laughing, which earned her a salty look from Primrose and Dahlia. "Oh girls, you know we're only teasin'," Azalea told them. "We're just goin' to miss you is all. Of course we want you to do whatever it is that makes you happy."

"Toronto is a fine city, growing bigger and bigger every year and it'll be a nice change of pace from St. John's, for sure," Reverend Lovell agreed. Azalea smiled at the older man. Petunia's comment from earlier hadn't seemed to faze him much.

"And a whole other crop of fine young men," Primrose winked. She glared at Petunia. "Not _all_ of us are slowing down."

"Whatever you say, dear," Petunia said smoothly. "Now, enough with this talk, the reverend's ears must be burning."

Rev. Lovell laughed. "Ladies, I'm far from innocent," he reminded them. He looked between Primrose, Petunia, and Azalea, then to the others. "Do you want to discuss our other…idea…?" he said tentatively.

"What other idea?" Dahlia asked, immediately suspicious.

"Well…" Azalea's voice broke the silence. "We were thinking…we were thinking about sending George along with them," she explained.

"Oh no, Azalea, first Rosie and Tunie, not _Georgie_ too?" Dahlia burst out.

Rev. Lovell looked at her. "Dahlia-" he began, but was interrupted by a knock on the door.

"That's George," Azalea said. "Why don't we table this conversation for the moment?"

Rev. Lovell nodded. "Supper first, I think, and then we'll have a chat with him."

Azalea moved to answer the door, pulling her shawl over her shoulders. Although it was April, winter's chill was still trying to hang on until the last possible moment, and the rain the past few days hadn't helped matters. She opened the door and smiled brightly. "Who is this strapping young lad come to call on us?" she teased. "I swear, Georgie, you get taller every time you knock on that door."

George Crabtree gave her a warm smile. "Hello, Aunt Azalea," he said. "I think it's you gettin' shorter, not the other way around," he teased her back. She gave him a mock gasp of indignation as she threw her arms around him, wrapping the sixteen-year old in a giant hug. He kissed her politely on the cheek as he slipped off his jacket to come inside.

Azalea shook her head lovingly, looking at the boy. He still refused to cut those long bangs of his. Underneath the suspenders and the simple cotton shirt, muscle rippled. His trousers were getting too short again, and Azalea wondered if he'd notice if she slipped some money into his coat pocket to buy a new pair. He looked so much like the little boy she'd held in her arms that day on the docks, and yet, so different. He'd grown into quite the young man. Azalea took his jacket and gestured for George to go sit in the parlor. Glancing back to see if he was looking, she slipped a few bills into his coat pocket.

She made it into the parlor in time to hear George ask, "Aunt Dahlia…is there…" He sniffed his teacup and his eyes widened. "Is that-"

Dahlia winked at him. "Only a nip. It's a cold, wet day and it'll warm you right up," she told him, catching Azalea's eye over George's shoulder.

 _Getting the boy drunk before we bring it up_ , Azalea rolled her eyes. _Interesting strategy._ She perched on the arm of the sofa as Ivy handed her a cup. She tried not to recoil at the smell from the cup, and wondered how much of the bottle of rum in the cupboard was left.

* * *

George told them over supper about his day on the boat with Ben Pittman. The two boys were taking David Pittman's boat out on their own, as David was laid up with a broken leg after slipping on the rain-slicked docks. George went through two bowls and two whole sandwiches telling them about their day.

As the conversation died down, Petunia and Primrose looked meaningfully at Azalea and Rev. Lovell. "George," she said, standing up and holding out a hand. "May the Reverend and I speak to you?"

He frowned, confusion flickering across his features. "Of course," he said, pushing himself off his chair. "We'll take your plate, Georgie," Daisy told him. He squeezed her shoulder, and then followed Reverend John and his aunt up the stairs to his old room. Azalea sat down on the bed and patted the space next to her. He sat, the bed creaking under his weight. "I'm a bit bigger than I used to be," he said softly, and moved to the floor. Reverend Lovell took a place in the desk chair, bringing it over to the bed and closing the door behind him.

"What's going on?" George asked them. He looked between the two of them in alarm. "Tell me."

"George…as you know," Reverend John began, "Aunt Petunia and Aunt Primrose are thinking about taking up residence back in Canada."

George nodded. "Yes," he said. "It's all they can talk about lately." He frowned. "I don't understand though, why did you bring me up here to talk about that?"

Reverend John clasped his hands together and wrung them nervously. "We thought…well, that perhaps you'd like to go along with them."

George's eyes widened. "To _Toronto_? _Why_?"

"You're such a bright young man, George Crabtree, but you've had to grow up far too fast for my liking," Azalea told him with a smile. She poked him in the nose, much as she had when he was younger. It elicited a slight upturn of the corner of his mouth. "George, you've got such big hopes and dreams and I think they're too big for this island. But Toronto…think of the people you'd meet, the things you could do there!"

"There's so much to do here, though," George argued, though Azalea noticed he hadn't outright vetoed the idea.

"That there is," Reverend John said. "But George…you're made for so much more than spending your day on a boat. You told me once you'd like to be a constable. Think of all the people you could help in Toronto," he told him. He knelt down on the floor next to the teenager. "You could look for your parents," he said.

"But…" George's head was swimming. "But I like it here." He looked at the two of them. " _You're_ my family."

"And we always will be," Reverend John assured him. "George, do you remember when we talked about how parents want what is best for their children?" George nodded, so he continued. "There's so much more opportunity for you in Toronto. It's a big, beautiful city with many different people and cultures and lots of opportunities for a young man like yourself. We just want you to have the chance to spread your wings and see what's out there."

"But…" George blinked. "But everything I know is here. What if…what if it's too much? What if I hate it there?"

"Oh Georgie," Azalea said, the nickname slipping out in the moment. "Newfoundland will always be just a boat ride away," she assured him. "We'll write to you, and you to us."

"And you'd always be welcomed back with open arms," Reverend John assured him. "You don't have to decide right now," he told him. "Petunia and Primrose aren't leaving until the end of next week. It's not much time, but we'd like you to seriously consider it.

George was quiet for a few moments. Could he do it? he wondered. Leave Newfoundland behind, leave everything he'd known to start over in Canada? New friends, new job…

 _It's not the first time you've left everything you've known_ , a small voice reminded him. _Except that time you had Reverend John. This time…_ "Aunt Magnolia told me something once," he said quietly. "Before she left for the States. She told me, 'If you don't try, you'll never know where trying may have taken you."

"Magnolia was a wise woman," Azalea agreed. She frowned. "When she was on the wagon, that is."

"We love you, George Crabtree," Reverend John reminded him. "And we'll be fine with whatever you decide."

* * *

_Three weeks later_

George remembered very little of Toronto. Not that it mattered, because the Toronto he'd left thirteen years ago as a toddler was much, _much_ different than Toronto now. He'd wondered if being there would dredge up any buried memories, but so far, nothing. The only memories so far had been of his tearful aunts hugging and kissing him an embarrassing amount on the docks, making him promise for the millionth time that he would write-and that he would eat all of the treats they'd made.

They hadn't been near so concerned with Aunts Petunia and Primrose.

The Reverend had given him a tight hug and prayed with him that he would have a safe journey and find whatever was in his heart.

_How do I even know what that might be?_

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and made his way back down to the street, taking a moment to breathe in the city. They were more or less settled, Aunt Petunia had found a job in a small café on Parliament- _dear Lord, as long as she's not in the kitchen_ , George prayed, not for the first time. Aunt Primrose had met a man at city hall named Percy and was working as a secretary in the city records office. George strongly suspected she hadn't gotten the job on her typing skills.

A cab blew past him, and two university-aged boys on bicycles, never stopping to give George a backwards glance.

He checked his watch. It was almost time to meet for lunch with Aunt Petunia, and so he began walking at a clipped pace up the street, threading his way through the noontime crowds. _Wouldn't it be a nice thought_ , he wondered as he wandered, _if one just had the power to snap their fingers and arrive wherever they meant to? No more bumping elbows in a crowd, no more being late, which I probably will be, no more-_

"Watch it!"

George stumbled back out of the way of a tall man with graying hair. He wore a double-breasted suit and tie with a jacket, unbuttoned because of the beautiful weather, and a shiny, silver badge glinting on his vest. "I-I'm sorry, sir," he apologized. He got a good look at the badge. "Toronto Detective," he read. He looked at the man curiously. "You work for the Constabulary?" His eyes widened, it was as if he was in the presence of royalty! This man was doing what George wished to do-to walk the streets and solve crimes and help the people of the city!

The man nodded, looking down his nose at George. "Indeed, I do, and you are in the way of an important police investigation," he informed him, brushing past him.

"I'd like to work for the constabulary myself one day," George found himself saying to the detective.

The detective eyed him, taking in his clothing and accent. "Good luck with that," the detective said, not sounding at all as if he meant it. George frowned as the man turned and walked away. _If that man spends his days helping people_ , George thought, _I would hate to be the people!_ _He's nothing at all like Constable Ashbury in St. John's._ He felt a pang of sadness. Reverend John probably wouldn't have approved of that statement. _Do not judge a man,_ Reverend John's voice reminded him. _Each man walks their own path_.

He sighed and felt a pang of sadness. _This would be much easier if Reverend John were here with me_ , he thought. _He always had the right things to say_. _I won't be like that when I'm a constable_ , George thought. _I won't let it go to my head._

He'd resumed walking down the street when he heard bells. He stopped dead in his tracks, turned, and looked to his left, at the building where the bells were coming from. He gasped. _What..._ George found himself walking up the path to the building, and his jaw dropped at the sign on the lawn in front of it.

ST. JAMES'S CHURCH

George found himself walking up the stairs, as if an invisible string was pulling him toward the doors. One foot on the stairs, then another. Hand on the metal railing to keep him planted in reality.

He stood on the steps of St. James's Church, looking down at the top stair. _This is it_ , he thought to himself. He knelt down, placed his palm in front of the door. "This is where it all began," George whispered. Where Reverend John had been called to serve, where George had been left as a baby to be found by the man who raised him. "I've come full circle." He straightened, looking up at the cross high above him on the spire. _Lord, I didn't know if this was the right decision before but…_ He grinned, and straightened his pageboy hat. _But it sure feels better now_. It was as if Reverend John were there with him.

He was whistling as he walked down the street. He was late for his lunch date with Aunt Petunia, and when he got there, he was surprised to see Primrose there as well. "Georgie!" Primrose called loudly across the busy dining room, and George felt his ears turn pink as he removed his hat and sat on the stool next to her. She gave him a hug. "What took you so long?"

"I had to make a stop," he said vaguely, and left it at that.

* * *

At the end of the meal, Petunia insisted on paying for them, which didn't sit well with George. He already felt bad that he was staying with them, another mouth to feed and clothes to launder. _I'm going to need a job_ , he thought. He was too young to do what he _really_ wanted, to be a constable, but perhaps there was…

His eyes drifted to an advertisement pinned to a board on the inside wall of the café. He got up and wandered over to it, his eyes scanning the papers quickly.

CHIMNEY SWEEP.

George grinned. If he couldn't help people with the constabulary, it didn't mean he couldn't help them in other ways. It would be messy, and dirty, and at times, he knew, safety could be a real problem.

 _But that was no different than going out in a boat with Ben Pittman at the oars every day_ , he thought to himself. _And it will pay the bills until I am a constable._ Whistling, he pulled the piece of paper off the board, and went in search of his next adventure.

In his mind, he composed his first letter home as he went to see about the job. _Find what's in my heart._ Whatever it was…he was starting to believe that it just might be in Toronto.


	9. Summer, 1886

George stared at himself in the mirror.

A hand floated up to his collar and he dug around between it and his neck. He didn't know if he'd ever get used to the uniform. The dark blue wool was scratchy and the collar stiff. The whole thing felt heavy and hot. He ran a hand down the brass buttons, tightened the belt with the buckle and frowned at the fact that there was _already_ a scuff on his boots.

Despite it all…He grinned and shook his head. He'd done it. Today was the nineteen-year-old's first day of on-the-job training with the Toronto Constabulary. He'd be reporting to Chief Constable Hatton out of Station 1. _Or at least_ -George smacked his forehead as he caught a glimpse of the clock- _he would be if he actually got there on time!_ He grabbed his helmet and billy club and dashed out the door of Mrs. Keening's Boarding House. A few years of living _very_ frugally (and only treating his aunts a _little_ ) and he'd been able to find a single room for rent that he could afford. Most of his pay would go to rent, but at least it would be a space that was _his_.

He skidded through the door of Station House 1 and it felt as if all eyes were on him. The desk sergeant was eyeing him disdainfully, and the constables that were milling about all gave him the side eye as he cleared his throat and removed his helmet. "You're Crabtree?" the desk sergeant asked him.

George nodded. "Wait there," the other man, a burly, ginger-haired man, told him. George stood in the middle of the entry, his eyes taking everything in. Despite his unfortunate entrance, he couldn't help but be excited. He was standing in a station house! _This is amazing_.

"Crabtree?" George snapped to attention as another man who looked to be in his mid-40s, with salt and pepper hair and neatly-trimmed goatee, came through from the bullpen. Glasses framed sharp blue eyes, and he eyed George with interest.

"Yes, sir," George stuttered. "A-are you Chief Constable Hatton?"

"I am indeed. Follow me, Crabtree." George tucked his helmet under his arm and followed Hatton through to the bullpen and back to a room full of filing cabinets.

"One of the first things you'll learn about this job, Constable, is that there's a large amount of paperwork involved," Hatton told him. He popped open a drawer and tossed a file down on the table. "Evidence logs. Case reports. Witness statements. Postmortem results. Can you type, Crabtree?"

George frowned. "I-I've never-"

"You'll figure it out. We need these reports retyped for filing. And be warned-some of the men have chicken scratch for penmanship." With that, Hatton left him alone in the room. George sighed, staring around the room. "There must be thousands of files in here," he breathed. He set his helmet down on the floor. _Got to start somewhere._ He pulled out a stack of files, dropped them on the desk, and sat down in front of the typewriter. He poked at a couple of the keys, and sighed when the keys stuck as he pressed on them.

_It's going to be a long day._

* * *

He'd only gotten through a handful of files when there was a commotion from out in the bullpen. Curious, George slid his chair back and poked his head out the door. Constables were grabbing their helmets and clubs, and he heard someone say something about the armory.

Hatton blew past him, and George grabbed his uniform sleeve. The older man glared at his arm, and George withdrew it immediately. "Sorry. Sir, what's going on?"

Hatton didn't mince words. "Riot at the bookstore on First. Grab your things, Crabtree. You're about to get your first taste of action."

 _Riot? At a bookstore?_ The two things didn't seem to go together-nobody in St. John's particularly cared that much about reading. Still, George fumbled for his chinstrap and followed the men from Station House 2 out the door. They moved with purpose, a sea of blue uniforms. As they got closer, George could hear yelling and swearing coming from down the block. The sea of blue spread out, George made sure to stick close to Hatton, and he got his first glimpse at-well, he couldn't believe it.

A large crowd was gathered outside a small bookshop in a well to-do part of the city. The sign above the awning proclaimed it as Pearson's Books, though the sign was hanging crooked and stained with a substance George couldn't identify. People held handpainted signs with the words "Filth" and "Rubbish" slathered on them in black paint. A number of the crowd were yelling obscenities.

"Take this book back to the slums!"

"No one should read such vulgar language!"

 _What in the world…_ George stood on his tiptoes, trying to see the cause of all the fuss. Someone in the crowd was holding up a copy of the affronted book. George squinted to read the title. He snorted. "Sir, all this over _The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn?_ " he asked Hatton.

Hatton eyed him. "It could be over Little Miss Muffet, Crabtree, what matters is that the people are angry."

"But sir, it's just a book," George protested. He didn't understand it.

"It doesn't matter what you think, Crabtree, what matters is these people are right." George looked at Hatton in disbelief. "The book is vulgar and should be banned."

There was a crash and the tinkling sound of breaking glass. The two stopped talking to see a gaping hole in the bookstore's front window. There was a scream from inside the store. "Sir, whether it should be banned or not, the property damage is uncalled for," George argued. "And what of the proprietors of the store? This crowd…one well-placed brick, one stray gunshot, and this could turn deadly! They're surrounded, and this crowd could-could surge forward into the store and-"

Hatton rolled his eyes. "Thank you for your input, _Constable_ ," he said. "Get inside that store and get them out then, if you're so worried about it. Stay between them and this crowd, though, Crabtree, or you'll have to fend off the whole of Toronto."

 _Great_. George tightened his helmet, kept a solid grip on his club, and pushed his way through the crowd. He opened the door to the store and slammed it shut behind him. "I'm looking for the owners?" he called. "I-I'm Constable Crabtree with the Toronto Constabulary." _You're joking, George, you just announced yourself a constable, of course you're with the Constabulary._ He shook his head. "We need to get you out of this store before you get hurt!" As if to emphasize his point, another brick came hurtling through the window, whizzing past George's ear. _So that's what the helmet is for_ , George thought. "Is there anybody in here?" he yelled.

"Here!" George heard the voice from up in front of him by the register, and he looked up to see an elderly man with a shock of white hair, and a young woman with brown hair in a long braid over her shoulder ducked behind the front counter.

The shouting outside intensified, and George had a feeling the crowd wouldn't be held back much longer. He knew part of the constabulary's job was to act as censor and moral police…and from what he'd seen of Hatton so far, it was unlikely that Hatton would care much if the crowd burned the store to the ground as long as it got rid of the offending book. "Is there a back entrance-a delivery entrance?" he asked the two of them.

The woman nodded. "Let's go that way," George decided, coming around the counter to help the older man to his feet. As he did, he heard a sharp _pop_ from outside. There was a rush of heat and air past his ear and George cried out in surprise. Something buried itself in the wall behind the register. The woman screamed and George pushed her ahead of him as they ran for the back as the crowd burst through the door, knocking it off its' hinges and making a beeline for the shelves. Outside, George led them down the alley and away from the shop. They ran for nearly two blocks before George pulled them to a stop, breathing heavily. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. _My first day on the job and I've already been shot at_! He opened his eyes and looked at his two charges. The Pearsons were clinging to each other and George could've kicked himself. _You idiot, think about them_. "Are you all right?" he asked the two of them.

The elderly man swallowed thickly. "My store, though…"

George nodded. "I know. I'm sorry."

"All this over a story." The woman was shaking her head. "Over a _book_!" she added furiously, kicking at the gravel in the alley.

"Alicia, dear, calm down," the older man said.

"No, Father, I will not! Are people so close-minded?" she fumed. She kicked at the dirt again, sending a spray toward George. George ducked out of the way.

"Ma'am, please," George tried to pacify her. "We should get you to the station house," he said. "You'll be safe there and we can take your statements." He gestured forward. The woman eyed him and then took hold of her father's arm. George sighed. Suddenly, the files back at the station house didn't seem so bad.

* * *

Hatton was waiting when he got back, the Pearsons in tow. "Crabtree!" he thundered. "Get those two to an interview room and get back to your work. I'll get your side of the story later."

The Pearsons glanced at George and he felt his face flushing hot. "Yes, sir," he mumbled. He nodded politely to the Pearsons as he pointed them in the direction of where he hoped the interview rooms were- _hadn't actually gotten that far today_ , he sighed.

When they were seated, he unbuckled his helmet and turned to go.

"Constable Crabtree," Alicia Pearson said, and he glanced back at her. "We might have gotten hurt or died in that ruckus, so…thank you."

He nodded. "Just um, just doing my job," he said.

He had made it through a quarter of the files when Hatton stuck his head back in the file room. "Crabtree," he said. He sounded friendly enough this time, and George was instantly on guard. "Your statement says the Pearsons were shot at?"

George nodded. "Yes, sir. There was a gunshot right before the crowd got into the store."

"Seems a bit over the top for a book protest, doesn't it?" Hatton asked him.

George took a breath. "Sir, a protest for a _book_ seems a bit over the top, if you don't mind my saying so," he pointed out. "Regardless, the bullet is most likely in the wall behind the front counter."

"And you didn't think to retrieve it?"

George looked at it him in confusion. "Sir? My orders per you were to get the Pearsons out of harm's way. I-"

"Get down there and get that slug, Crabtree."

George felt his toes curl inside his boots. "Yes, sir," he said, attempting to keep a civil tongue. Hatton smirked and left him alone.

 _You did what you were told, George_ , he reminded himself. _Hatton told you what to do, and you did it. This is just some kind of power play over the new recruit_.

He hoped.

* * *

Back at the store, the crowd had been dispersed, but Pearson's Books was a wreck. The sign, which had been barely attached to the storefront before, had been ripped off and was now teetering on the ripped awning. The window glass was shattered, still lying in heaps on the ground outside. The glass panes on the doors were in the same state. Glass crunched under his boots as George made his way into the store. Books lay scattered around the floorboards. The copies of _Huckleberry Finn_ had most of their pages ripped out, and George saw charred edges around the covers. Pages had been ripped out of the other books and coated the floor like a strange snow.

George sighed. _Unbelievable_. He picked his way through the mess to the back counter. The register lay tipped on its' side and completely empty. He wondered why the constables hadn't done anything to prevent all of this, _but then perhaps when it came to crowd control, this_ was _under control_ , George guessed. Still, it seemed excessive. He pulled his torch from his belt and flicked it on, playing it over the back wall of the store. He closed his eyes, picturing where he'd been standing as the shot had brushed by him.

He slid over, an inch to the left, then stopped, and turned. _Gotcha_. He pulled out his pen from his pocket and dug it into the small hole in the wall. A silver projectile dropped into his upturned palm, and he grinned.

"Well done, Constable Crabtree."

George started at the sound of his name, and turned to see Hatton standing behind him, applauding him slowly. The older man had a smile on his face.

George handed over the slug. "Sir?" he questioned, and Hatton stepped over the mess to lean against the counter.

"You're going to make a fine constable," Hatton told him. "You take direction well, and you're not afraid to voice an objection should an objection need to be raised." He raised an eyebrow. "Though that uniform could use a little spit and polish."

"Yes, sir." George tried not to let the pleasure he was feeling show on his face. "Sir, I don't know if this was an intentional shot, or just a warning, but it did nearly take my ear off."

Hatton nodded. "Then our next step is to figure out just that. We have a few suspects in mind, but in the meantime, on the chance that it _wasn't_ a stray shot, someone should be on guard at the Pearson home tonight." He looked meaningfully at George. "Paperwork can wait."

* * *

"Are you going to stand out here all night?" Alicia Pearson poked her head out the door at George, who sat on a small stool to the right of the door.

"Technically, I'm sitting," George pointed out. "And yes."

"I can't believe someone would want to shoot at us," Alicia said, wrapping her shawl around her shoulders and slipping outside.

George stood up quickly. "Miss Pearson, it's not safe for you to be out here," he hissed, glancing around.

She looked at him. "Then what good are you?" she asked him flatly. "Isn't that what you're here for?"

"I-yes, but-" He pinched the bridge of his nose. "You should go back inside."

She crossed her arms and eyed him. George sighed, and gestured to the stool. "At least sit down, then," he said. "You're less of a target that way." He looked around, trying to decide where he'd sit if he was a shooter intent on picking off a subject, and planted himself in the line of fire. "Miss Pearson, you said you can't believe it, but is there anyone you _can_ think of that would want to kill you or your father?"

Alicia leaned back against the wall of the house. "Well…there is one woman. A Mrs. Crandall. She's been trying to find ways to get us evicted from our storefront since my father opened up shop. The landlord told us she'd wanted to put a millinery there, but my father had the means to pay for the spot first." She snorted. "She's also in some kind of puritan league that wants to ban vulgar books and other 'sinful' products."

George frowned. "Sounds a lot like motive to me," he said.

"Except that it _didn't_ work!"

George froze and Alicia gasped as a woman in a dark skirt and blouse stepped out of the shadows at the corner of the house. "Mrs. Crandall," Alicia spat out.

George looked from Alicia to the other woman, who, he now noticed, held a small pistol in her left hand. He raised his hands slowly. "Ma'am. Put that away," he told her.

"I thought the warning would have scared you away. I thought that the population's actions today would have made you see sense!" Mrs. Crandall said, punctuating the last word with a shake of the pistol.

"Ma'am." George's tone was more forceful this time, even though on the inside, he was trembling. Staring down someone with a pistol in this moment was much more terrifying that it had been in training. For one thing, he was pretty sure his fellow trainees weren't going to actually shoot him…but Mrs. Crandall was an entirely different matter.

"What will it _take_?" Mrs. Crandall was addressing Alicia, as if she didn't even realize George was there. "What do I need to _do_ to make you get _out_?"

"We're not going anywhere!" Alicia hissed at her, and George fixed her with a glare that plainly meant to stop talking.

"Mrs. Crandall, so far you've not hurt anyone. But if you shoot her, you'll get the noose," George tried. He took a step forward. "Murder for a storefront, it's not worth it."

Mrs. Crandall blinked, looking at George. "But you're a constable. You-that vulgar book, you should-"

George shook his head. "That book is no more vulgar or meant for the slums than any other. People speak the way they do and act the way they act in that part of the world. It's no different than any other book-it's meant to be an _escape_ , or a satire, or to open your eyes to viewing other people's way of life." He bit his lip, trying to decide if he could rush her. "And to get the noose over a book seems an awfully pointless reason to murder someone."

He saw her hesitate and he took another step forward. The pistol was within arm's reach now, if he could just-

Mrs. Crandall's eyes flashed. "I don't have to kill her," she said. "Just maim her a bit."

George moved, grabbing her wrist and pulling it sideways. The gun fired, the shot landing out in the yard somewhere. He was going to have a powder burn on his uniform sleeve. He twisted her arm, and Mrs. Crandall cried out as her fingers loosened and George pulled the pistol away, throwing it into the grass. Mr. Pearson had come outside now, and Alicia had fled into his arms. George wrestled Mrs. Crandall to the ground and placed her arms behind her. "Mr. Pearson, would you please alert Station House 1?" he ground out as the woman struggled underneath him.

* * *

"A Philadelphia derringer," Hatton said later that evening as George hauled Mrs. Crandall to the cells.

"Yes, sir, a small firearm, accuracy's not much. Smaller firearms are generally chosen by women, sir, although most prefer more subtle methods, poisons and the like. Anyway, good chance if she'd fired at Miss Pearson she'd have taken out a tree down the block, or myself." George grimaced. _Not a pleasant thought_. "But I think you'll find that the bullet-which currently is buried in the Pearson's yard somewhere, I'll go look for it at first light-matches the same one that I pulled out of the wall this afternoon."

He slammed the cell door shut as Mrs. Crandall glared at him darkly. "I also think that if you question Mrs. Crandall, you'll find more than enough evidence that she's been up to no good for a long time," he added.

"Not bad for your first day of on the job training, eh, Constable Crabtree?" Hatton asked him as the two made their way back to the bullpen.

"Sir." George leaned against the wall in the hallway. "That was the most terrifying two minutes of my life, including the time I nearly froze to death and the time I fell off a boat in the North Atlantic."

Hatton raised an eyebrow. "I'll have to hear those stories sometime, Constable."

"Oh, they're good yarns, sir, to be sure." He paused. "Sir? Is _every_ day going to be like _this_?" George wondered.

"Oh, you'll get a mix," Hatton assured him. "It will never be boring." He clapped George on the shoulder. "Well done on your first case, Constable. I'll expect that bullet and a full case report on my desk by nine a.m."

George nodded, feeling pretty good despite it all.

"And don't think this gets you out of filing," Hatton threw over his shoulder.

George sighed, sliding down the wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huck Finn was published in the US in 1885 and was indeed very much disliked by some in upper circles. Interesting facts if you search for why that book was/is banned.


	10. Summer, 1889

The phone was ringing off the hook.

It had happened every year, on this exact date, for the past three years George had been at Station House 1. He hadn't even clocked in for the day and he could already hear the phone at the desk he shared with Constable O'Mara ringing. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. As he walked past the desk sergeant, he grabbed the morning edition of the paper off the top and carried it with him to his desk.

 _I wonder how big the reward is this year_.

He tossed the paper down on his desk and nodded hello at O'Mara. The Irishman was 23, a year older than George, and had started at Station House 1 in 1894, the same year that Adam Gordon, the youngest grandson of the wealthy Adelia Gordon, had been kidnapped from their backyard one summer morning. The kidnapper had demanded $500. The ransom had been delivered, but no one saw who had taken it, and Adam Gordon was not returned to his family. While George knew the statistics, that most kidnapping victims, especially children, if they weren't returned or found within 48 hours were presumed dead, Adelia Gordon was admirably persistent. Every year, on the day young Adam had disappeared, she placed an advertisement in the _Gazette_ , offering a reward that only got larger every year for the safe return or information about her grandson.

The problem was, in five years, no one, not even the Pinkerton Detectives, had been able to come up with a credible lead. And because Adelia Gordon was wealthy, and the family had pull in high Toronto circles, the constabulary tracked every phone call, every tip, vetted every John Doe who claimed that they'd seen the boy, or _were_ the boy (there were some rather conniving children out there).

Today, George was sure, would be no exception. "Every other?" he asked his partner, and O'Mara nodded. The phone rang, and George picked it up, pencil at the ready. "Station House 1."

" _I have a man here who says he has information about the kidnapping of Adam Gordon."_

George rolled his eyes at O'Mara, who shook his head. "All right," he prompted, and waited.

" _Well, here's the thing_ ," the voice on the other end said. " _I'm calling from the Don Jail. There's…an inmate here who says the boy's dead, and he knows where the body is."_

O'Mara caught the look on his partner's face change as George's eyes widened. "And?" George asked.

" _He won't say anything more until you send someone to talk to him."_

"I'll see what I can do." He hung up and settled back in his chair, letting out his breath.

"What was _that_ all about?" O'Mara asked him.

George shook his head. "Could be nothing. Could be…everything." He stood up. "I need to speak to Detective Anderson," he said.

"Good luck, he's been out following leads all morning with Constable Hatton," O'Mara said. "But I'd wager the Inspector's in his office if you want to talk to him," he added, nodding over George's head. The phone rang, effectively ending the conversation.

George grimaced. Inspector Jones was _not_ his favorite person in the Station House. Where Hatton was brash, but showed occasional bouts of caring, Jones was harsh and crass, and crude. _Reverend John would have something to say about him_ , George thought, _and that's sayin' something because Reverend John rarely has anything to say about anyone!_ Still…all calls needed to be taken seriously, and George…well, he doubted a 22-year-old constable third class was going to be allowed access to an inmate at the Don Jail.

Not without permission, at least. He took a breath and let it out as he got up and knocked on Inspector Jones's door. " _What_?" someone barked from inside. George took that to mean he could enter, and pushed the door open. Inspector Harrison Jones was built the way George had imagined constables to look when he was younger-tall, muscular, broad shoulders. Then, of course, he'd met Constable Ashbury, and that had all changed, but-

"Crabtree. What the hell do you want?" The Inspector's phone rang, and George jumped back as the Inspector swiped it off his desk in one quick movement. "Damn thing's been ringing off the hook all morning," he growled at it.

"Sir, someone called with a tip on Adam Gordon from the Don Jail." George told him. "Apparently, there's an inmate there who says Adam Gordon is deceased, and he knows where the boy is buried."

"Check it out."

George's eyes widened. "Really, Sir?" he asked. He'd though for sure Jones was going to toss him out on his arse, but here he'd been given permission!

The Inspector waved him away as he held his head in his hands. George suspected a migraine. Jones got them frequently. "It's probably nothing, like every other so-called 'tip' we get on this day," Jones said flatly. "Follow up on it and report back."

George nodded. "Yes, sir." He backed out of the office quickly, before Jones could change his mind.

* * *

The trip to the Don Jail was a long one, and George found his mind wandering as he took the streetcar as far as he was able.

 _Mrs. Gordon, my name is George Crabtree, but in another life, I think I was your grandson_.

Oh, he knew, George reflected, that it was a pipe dream and nothing more. He was too old and his story well-known, at least to himself, that he'd been found at St. James's Church as a baby, not a boy. Still, he found himself thinking, as he often did on this day, of his family.

 _His mother must have been of lower class_ , he reasoned. _Unless there was some sort of scandal_ , his mind reminded him. _Perhaps a wealthy aristocrat left her in the family way, and the family forced her to give me up for adoption, to keep up appearances._ And his father….he couldn't really think of anything about his father. Reverend John had always suspected a woman had given him up, which made George think that if he _did_ have a father out there- _And surely you do, you're not Jesus, you weren't immaculately conceived_ -that whoever his father was must not have been in the picture for long at all. _I wonder if they ever think about me. If they wonder what sort of man I've become?_

 _What would it be like_ , George mused, as the streetcar rumbled along the rail. _What if the Reverend hadn't found me, and I'd grown up like Adam Gordon, in a big house with more rooms than people, and someone to wait on me and fetch my toys. I'd have had a tutor instead of going to school. I'd have learned to play croquet, or become a rower, or something equally high-born. Becoming a constable would have been frowned upon; more likely I'd have been pressured to be a-an accountant or a businessman._

He smiled to himself. He could picture himself as neither of those things. The streetcar slowed and George hopped off, walking the last bit to the imposing stone façade of the Don Jail. Inside, he asked around until someone could point him to the person who had called the station.

"Officer Riley," the man introduced himself. He didn't look much older than George, with a shock of blonde, feathery hair.

"You're the one who called about Adam Gordon?" George clarified.

Officer Riley looked around nervously. "Yes. O-on behalf of Aaron Forsberg," he said. "I-this way."

"Forsberg." George knew the name. Someone at Station House 4 had nabbed the suspected (now convicted) Forsberg for molesting a child. He'd been suspected in the Gordon case, but there'd been no evidence linking him to the boy's disappearance, but, _It would stand to reason that Forsberg may have done the same to Adam Gordon_. The thought made George's stomach churn.

Riley gestured to the visiting area. Forsberg, a skinny man with gaunt features, sat alone at one of the tables, dressed in prison blues with his hands cuffed in front of him. George swallowed. "Thank you, Officer," he said, hoping his tone didn't betray his nerves, and tried to act confident as he walked over to where Forsberg was sitting, and took a seat.

Forsberg eyed him. "They sent a pretty one, didn't they."

George glared at him. _Don't let him rag on you, Crabtree_. "You said you know where Adam Gordon is?"

Forsberg nodded. "Aye. Handsome devil, he was. Dead now, though."

"Did you…did you abduct and kill Adam Gordon?"

Forsberg simply quirked the corner of his mouth. "Here's the deal, Constable-"

"Crabtree," George supplied. "George Crabtree."

"-George. Can I call you George?" Before George could tell him absolutely not, Forsberg pressed on. "I'll take you right to the boy, but I have a few conditions."

"And what are those?" George's skin crawled. Every inch of him hated this man. _I'm sorry, Reverend John, I know that's a strong word_.

"It's just you and I that go." Forsberg ticked his conditions off on his fingers. "You and I, and I'll take you right to him. In exchange, you put in a word for me with the crown, knock a few years off my sentence."

"And let you off sooner for something so heinous?" George shook his head. "I don't think so. If you knew where Adam Gordon was, simply telling me would get you the same deal." He had no idea where this confidence was coming from, but he knew Forsberg couldn't set foot outside the walls of the Don Jail.

"That's the thing," Forsberg shrugged. "Been in here for a spell, mind's a little…" He wiggled his eyebrows, rolled his eyes. "Fuzzy. Can't quite remember the details in here, but out there?" He gestured to the barred window. "Think it'll clear things right up."

"It's not going to happen." George stood to go. "This is just a ploy."

"It might be, George," Forsberg called to his back. "But you'll never know if it was or wasn't if you leave."

* * *

"Sir, he'll be handcuffed the entire time. I'll cuff him to myself if I have to," George told the warden, a stout man by the name of Finley.

"Do you realize how it would look if he escaped?" Finley objected. "And you look like you've been on the job, what, a day?"

George bristled. "This is my third year with the constabulary, Mr. Finley. Look, I know this is rather unusual, I do. But I also know that we're to take all information about Adam Gordon seriously. Alive or dead, Mrs. Gordon needs that closure. He could be telling the truth, or he could be lying. Either way…" George shrugged.

Finley stroked his beard. "I'll authorize it. Constable…" he warned, shaking a finger at him, "this responsibility lies with you."

George swallowed. "Yes, sir. I'm well aware. "

 _Somehow_ , he, thought, as he waited for them to bring Forsberg to him, _I have a feeling this wasn't what Jones meant when he'd told him to follow up with this_.

* * *

The air was humid, and George's uniform only exacerbated the heat as he and Forsberg trudged through the tall grass along the Don River. They'd walked a good ways out, George could hear a horse whinnying somewhere off to his left and very few sounds of the city from where they were.

"Oh yes," Forsberg was saying, and George forced himself to pay attention to the man currently attached to him. George had cuffed the man's hands in front of him, then tied a knot to the connecting chain. The end of the rope was in George's hands, so that Forsberg was very much like a dog on a leash. "This is starting to look familiar, now."

"Tell me how you did it, Forsberg," George said, eyeing him warily. "How did you kidnap Adam Gordon?"

"Boy was outside, on the swing," Forsberg said as they walked. "Little man, in his sailor's outfit. Like a man in uniform," he leered, and George rolled his eyes. "Didn't take much, he was a light little thing. Pulled him right off the swing, into the trees."

"The Gordons live miles from here," George pointed out, pulling Forsberg along. "So how is it the body _allegedly_ came to be out here?"

"Oh, he and I took a walk, much like you and me today," Forsberg shrugged. "Wasn't quite as warm that day though. I carried him for a lot of it."

"And the ransom money?" George questioned. "The $500? What did you do with that? Couldn't have had long to spend it, you've been in the Don Jail the last four years."

Forsberg quirked an eyebrow. "Gave the boy a proper burial, coffin and all. Had to fudge some of the details on what happened, though. Mortuary asked a lot of questions-"

George stopped short, and Forsberg nearly tripped. " _Enough_ with the games, Forsberg!" George spat out. "You're just…stringing me along! You don't know anything about Adam Gordon."

Forsberg gave him a mocking gasp. "George. You don't trust me?"

"Not as far as I can throw you," George assured him. "You ought to be ashamed, trying to take advantage of a little boy's death for personal gain. Nothing that you've told me couldn't be found in the paper. That boy's family has been heartbroken, and torn apart for the last five years by charlatans and confidence tricksters trying to take advantage of them. And meanwhile, there could very well be a little boy out there wondering if his family knows that he's still alive!" He narrowed his eyes. "You're the worst kind of liar, Mr. Forsberg."

"I'm hurt, George. Really." Forsberg closed the distance between them. "I've been nothing but honest with you."

"I highly doubt that," George countered. "I think it's time we returned you to where you belong."

Forsberg smirked. With a speed George wouldn't have thought possible for a man his age, Forsberg yanked on the tether connecting them, knocking George off his feet. George felt the rope skin his hands as he struggled to hold on as Forsberg tried to run. Forsberg growled, kicking George in the stomach. The constable doubled over, and he let go. Forsberg took off running as George writhed on the ground. _Get up, George, he's getting away_! George lurched to his feet, looking for the escaped inmate. He spotted dark blue running toward the river. _With his hands cuffed, there's no way he can swim…or can he_? George didn't know anymore, he hadn't thought Forsberg could get the upper hand on him either!

George staggered forward, pain stabbing at his midsection. Ahead of him, he could make out a small homestead with a wooden fence running around it, and-

He nodded determinedly, forcing himself to run. Forsberg was a ways ahead of him now, and George wouldn't be able to catch him on his own two feet.

 _But on the horse that's watching the chase_ …George ascended the fence and climbed onto the horse's back. The horse whinnied, and reared, and George held on for dear life. He'd never been on a horse in his life, except for Constable Ashbury's, and he'd been half frozen for that. Forsberg was running along the fenceline, and behind him, George could hear the horse's owner swearing at him in something other than English. "Toronto Constabulary!" George yelled, finally figuring out how to the horse into a run. "I'll bring him back!"

 _The horse isn't the only thing you better bring in, George_! The wind was whistling in his ears as the horse ran along the fence. Forsberg wasn't far ahead of him now. George's helmet was bouncing on his head, sweat dripping into his eyes, and he used one hand to awkwardly fling it off into the grass.

"Forsberg! Stop!" George yelled. He was almost parallel with Forsberg now. Without thinking, George dove off the horse's back, tackling Forsberg to the ground. He landed on Forsberg's back, pummeling them both into the grass as they rolled. George felt his head strike something hard, and then the world went black.

* * *

When he awoke, it was to the acrid smell of bleach and the medicinal smell of a hospital. His head throbbed, and the spring green paint on the walls was too bright.

"Crabtree, don't you _dare_ go back to sleep."

George fought to open his eyes again, the person standing over him blurry, and taking too long to come into focus. _I'm in a hospital…what happened_?

It came racing back to him. He struggled to clear his vision. His head throbbed; he felt sick to his stomach. "I-Inspector," he said, as Jones came into focus. O'Mara was standing next to him, his partner looking at him, his expression unreadable. "F-Forsberg?"

"Recaptured, and back in his cell at the Don Jail," Jones said. George could tell he was trying to keep his tone civil. "The farmer you stole the horse from chased the two of you on another one, managed to load you onto the back of the horse and left Mr. Forsberg tied to a fence so he could get you some help."

George made a mental note to thank the farmer somehow. His chest was sore, his whole body hurt. He had a vague recollection of jumping off a horse's back.

"Crabtree," Jones barked, earning him a glare from a nurse standing nearby. He lowered his tone. "Crabtree, you very nearly let a convicted molester escape. You don't have the authority to take an inmate out of custody-"

"You t-told me to f-follow up," George whispered. "I got permission from the w-warden."

"And he'll be _next_ on my list," Jones assured him. "Crabtree, you're lucky in more than one way that you're in a hospital and not on the friggin' slab. As it is, you've got a few cracked ribs and a concussion. Not to mention a pending performance review."

George's heart sank. _This could easily end my career_ , he thought. _You let him get to you, and you let your guard down. Stupid, stupid move, George._

"Crabtree, I'm placing you on suspension. I don't know how I'm going to keep this embarrassment out of the papers. Don't come back to work until you can see straight, and I don't just mean because of your concussion." With that, Jones spun on his heel and left the ward. O'Mara shot him a sympathetic glance as he followed the inspector out.

George sighed. The movement hurt.

* * *

"He hasn't eaten," Petunia whispered to Primrose. The two of them stood by George's bed as their nephew slept. "I sent a telegram to the Reverend and the girls. The Reverend wanted to get on the next ferry but I told him that George isn't much for company right now, and to send prayers instead."

"He's suspended, Tunie," Primrose whispered back, watching George's chest rise and fall. A lock of his dark hair fell over his eye, and she brushed it gently back. "His injuries will be a hard road to come back from."

"Not to mention the suspension," Petunia agreed. "Our poor Georgie."

"Perhaps a change of scenery might do him well," Primrose suggested. "What if…what if he were to spend some time up in Haileybury with Nettle? It's quiet, less stressful. He could convalesce there until he's called back to work."

"And if he's not?" Petunia wondered worriedly.

"Perish the thought," Primrose chided her sister. "This is what he's wanted since he was a boy. If he isn't able to be a constable anymore, it would be like a part of him is missing."

* * *

George kept his eyes closed, his breathing even, but he was listening. Aunt Primrose's statement had hit hard. _Like a part of him is missing_. She didn't realize how right she was. _But look at how badly I've mucked this up_ , he reminded himself. _What if I've ruined this for myself?_

 _Haileybury might be nice_ , he decided. _Perhaps I need to reconsider what I'm going to do with my life…_

He drifted off to sleep again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> None of this gets mentioned in "The Missing," obviously. It's implied that George was versed in the case but Murdoch was not, which suggests to me the case was maybe out of a different station house, or he wasn't in the upper echelons yet, or...well, something :) And as to why George never brings up this particular little adventure...well, that's a secret only George knows...


	11. Fall, 1889

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a direct continuation of Ch. 9

The train slowed as it came into the Haileybury station. George gingerly got off his seat, hissing in pain at the movement. The floor of the car spun as he reached for his rucksack carrying the few belongings he had, and he had to put an arm out to steady himself. His seatmate looked at him in concern, but George merely waved them off. _I'm fine_.

"Haileybury! Fifteen minutes!"

George carefully stepped down from the train to the platform. The sun was out, and he shielded his eyes as he looked for-

"George?"

He managed a smile at the petite, dark-haired woman coming toward him. Aunt Nettle (he didn't know her real name like he did Azalea and Dahlia), looked exactly the same as she had when she'd left Newfoundland for Ontario. She wore a simple dress and a floppy bonnet. "Aunt Nettle. It's good to see you," he told her as she came up to him.

"Can I hug you?" Nettle asked him.

George winced at the thought. "Probably better if we, you know, shake hands or something," he admitted. Petunia and Primrose (and the reverend in a very sobering letter) had told him he needed to be upfront about his recovery. He stuck his hand out and Aunt Nettle shook it gingerly.

He smiled. "Aunt Nettle, my hand's fine, you don't have to hold it like it's an egg."

She flushed. "Oh, I'm sorry, dear, I just-"

Something blew past the two of them and pain exploded around George's midsection as a small figure wrapped her arms around him and squeezed. "Ah!" George couldn't help crying out. Pinpricks of white burst around the edges of his vision.

"Penny Renton!" Nettle was scolding someone. "We talked about this! Your cousin is hurt very badly. You need to be careful!"

George looked through the haze at the small girl getting the talking-to. She was a tiny thing, brown hair in double braids. _Cousin?_ He blinked, looking at Aunt Nettle.

Nettle sighed. "George, this is my…" She paused, searching for the right word. "Ward," she said finally. "She lives with me. This is Penny Renton."

"You're cousin George?" Penny asked, looking at him up and down. She smiled broadly. "You're cute!"

George felt his ears getting hot. "I-uh-"

"Penny!" Aunt Nettle sounded exasperated. "Penny, that's enough. You'll overwhelm the boy enough to put him back on the train to Toronto." She looked at George sympathetically. "You must be hungry. Let's get you to the house, get you something to eat. It's just up this way."

George was wishing he _was_ on the train back to Toronto. _Whatever notions of peace and quiet that his Toronto aunts had in their heads…_

"How did you get hurt?" Penny asked him.

"I…fell off a horse."

"Are you a constable?"

 _Don't come back until you can see straight!_ "I was." George felt a stab of pain through his chest and wasn't sure if it was the cracked ribs or something else.

"You're a foundling like me?"

George was saved from having to answer by Aunt Nettle. "We're here!" she announced.

George looked at the sign above the door. "Nettle's Vittles?" he read, frowning.

"Indeed!" Nettle was grinning from ear to ear proudly. "Only restaurant in town; we live above the kitchen. Come on inside, let's get you settled and then we'll see about something to eat. And make sure that door closes behind you; Mr. Varner down at the tavern had a moose come inside the place last week, thrashed the place completely!" She shivered. "Big, nasty beasts, they are."

George raised an eyebrow. _A moose_? He'd never seen one in person. _Maybe this won't be so bad after all_.

* * *

A few days later, George sat on the shores of the lake, book in hand. He'd finally convinced Aunt Nettle that he wasn't going to crumble if he went for a walk by himself-and he did _not_ need Penny to chaperone him. The girl was driving him crazy. Constantly full of questions, always underfoot and _oh dear God,_ George came to a horrifying realization, _she's just like I was when I was seven_. He made a mental note to write a grand apology note to Reverend John.

The wind blew off the lake, swirling the leaves overhead. It reminded him a little of Newfoundland-the vast stretch of water, the changing colors. Summer had faded into fall over the past month, the leaves exploding with color. "It's nice," he said aloud, his pencil scratching on the piece of paper set on the cover of his book. "It's nice to feel something familiar, after feeling like everything else has been ripped away."

He sighed. Writing this letter to Reverend John was really difficult. It wasn't just the aftereffects of his injuries, but the thought that it just might be true. That everything was getting ripped away.

_For once in my life, I felt like I was where I needed to be. I was helping people, like you, like Constable Ashbury. But it seems as though I'm at a crossroads. I don't know what will be waiting for me back in Toronto when I'm physically healed. They're reviewing my actions, and said they'd have a decision for me when I returned. I don't know if I would have done anything different that day. My actions are my own and I take full responsibility for them. I let Mr. Forsberg get under my skin. I know it's not very Christian of me, but I hope he rots in the Don Jail for his transgressions._

_Perhaps I was too emotionally involved with the idea of a young boy separated from his family. My circumstances and Adam Gordon's are at opposite ends of the spectrum, I know, but neither of our separations were our choice. But if I cannot keep my personal thoughts and feelings out of my work, I fear I will never make it as a constable-_

George set his pencil down, balled up the letter, and tossed it into the water with a frustrated groan. He ran his hands through his hair.

And then winced, because the movement made his head swim and his chest hurt.

_What am I going to do?_

* * *

It was the whinny of a horse that woke George a few weeks later. He opened his eyes and realized that for the first time in a long time, his vision didn't blur and he didn't feel sick to his stomach at the sudden movement. He swung his legs off the bed and planted his feet. He was still sore; but not nearly as bad as he had been when he'd first come to Haileybury almost a month ago.

He studied himself in the small mirror on the dresser. His hair had grown out, he didn't think it'd been this long since he was a child. What little facial hair he could grow was starting to show on his chin; the sideburns that were all the rage in Toronto for men were starting to sprout.

George's hands drifted to his midsection and he unbuttoned his nightshirt. The angry red and purple were giving way to a mottled yellow and brown. He took a deep breath, felt a twinge, but it was manageable.

He was healing. At least, he was healing on the outside.

He stared, looking at the lines on his forehead, and ran a hand over his face. He'd gotten older… _when the hell had that happened_ , he wondered. And his language-oh the Reverend would have something to say about that. George couldn't help it; it sort of became ingrained working with the constabulary and he'd picked up a lot of the language floating around the station house.

George wondered if he'd ever see the inside of Station House 1 again. Would they send a telegram? Would they send somebody on the 1:50 train into Haileybury to tell him in person? Or would he show up on that first day back in uniform and get called into Inspector Jones's office, and Jones would fire him in person, perhaps? Maybe O'Mara would be sitting in his spot, and that's how he'd find out-

The horse whinnied again and George jumped. Downstairs, he could hear clinking and water running in the kitchen. Aunt Nettle was readying the restaurant for breakfast, and George decided to go see if he could be of any help. He threw on a pair of trousers and a plain cotton shirt, noting, with satisfaction, that the movements of getting dressed and slipping on suspenders didn't make him want to curl up in a ball.

 _Stairs_ , he noted on the way down, _stairs were a bit painful yet._ When he finally made it down, Nettle was in full swing. She handed him a cup of tea in the same movement as flipping some pancakes in a griddle and pointing him in the direction of the back door.

"Good morning to you too, Auntie," George laughed as he took his cup outside. In the laneway, Penny was patting the nose of a large spotted horse. The animal nudged her with its' nose and he shivered. _I would rather never have a horse that close to me again_ , he thought. Just because one _could_ ride a horse didn't mean one _should._ "Penny, what are you doing?"

"I thought I'd go for a quick ride before breakfast," she explained. She smiled at him. "Do you want to come, George? We can both ride on Texas and I'll sit behind you."

George shook his head over the cup. "Oh, I don't think so. I actually think I was sent out here to tell you that Aunt Nettle needs help in there." He bit his lip. "At least, I think that's what the pointing was for-it could very well have just been, 'There's a horse out back, go have a look,' but anyway, I feel more confident it's the former. I'm afraid I'm not completely back to normal yet."

"I think you're just making excuses," Penny shot back as she handed the reins to him. She stalked off around the corner of the building in a huff.

George looked at the item in his hands, then at the horse. "You know, I think I just got told off by a seven- year old," he told Texas.

The horse snorted and George glared at him, wrapping the reins around the post. "Oh, what do you know," he said.

" _Give me it! All of it!"_

George's head shot up at the order, and he looked at the horse. He turned back to the kitchen door and eased it open a crack. Inside, he could hear Nettle arguing with someone. He quietly made his way into the kitchen and looked out into the main dining area.

A man was standing near the register on the front counter, gesturing animatedly with a rifle. Nettle was behind the counter, hands held up at shoulder height. "This's all I've got for a living!" Nettle was telling him. "You want to rob someone, you should go hold up the train station!"

 _Dear Lord_. George shook his head. He did remember Aunt Nettle being something of a spitfire. She'd been the first aunt to leave Flower Hill with grand ambitions of making a life for herself in the 'untamed West'-but only gotten as far as Ontario. George disappeared up the stairs, praying that his aunt was loud enough to cover his footsteps, and went for the rifle he knew Nettle kept in the sitting room. He pulled it off the pegs and gingerly made his way back down to the kitchen.

"Have you got a death wish, lady? Just open it!" the boy with the rifle-and that's all he was, George noted, just a boy, couldn't have been much older than George-was yelling at her. Clearly, the boy had made a miscalculation thinking this was going to be a simple holdup. _Not with Aunt Nettle_ ,George grinned.

"Aunt Nettle?" George's heart quickened as he heard Penny's voice. He watched her come in from the front door-what the hell she had been doing out front was only hers to know… "Where do we keep- _oh!_ " The girl shrieked at the sight of the robber, and he aimed the gun in her direction.

"You open it, or I'll put a hole in this little girl!"

George glanced heavenward. _Why, Lord? Why do you continually stick me in this situations?_ Reverend John had told him once that man made plans and God laughs, _well, the Lord must be rolling on account of me!_

He stepped out into the dining area. "Do that, and I'll drop you where you stand," he warned the boy.

"George!" Nettle cried. "George, no, it's all right."

He glanced at her. "What part of this is ' _all right_ '?" he asked incredulously.

"I had it well in hand!"

"We're going to have to agree to disagree!" George shot back. He aimed the barrel between the boy's ribs. "It's been my experience that these two ladies are more trouble than it's worth," he informed him. "Get out."

"I'll shoot," the boy said, but he didn't sound as confident now.

George saw the terror on Penny's face. "Do it," George told him, taking advantage of his hesitation and coming further into the room. He wasn't more than an arm's length or two away from the boy now. "Kid hasn't stopped pestering me with questions since I got here nigh on a month ago."

" _George_!" Nettle gasped.

Penny burst into tears. George forced himself to continue playing the part. "Go on then," he told the boy.

The boy looked at him, trying to decide if George was serious or not. George took advantage of the moment, swinging the stock of the rifle in his hands, catching the barrel of the boy's gun and sending it toward the ceiling. The gun fired, the bullet pinging harmlessly into the iron chandelier. George dropped his rifle and wrested the gun from the boy, aiming it directly between his eyes.

He primed the gun.

"George, _no_." Aunt Nettle came around the counter and Penny flew into her arms.

"I'm not letting another criminal get away," George said, staring the boy in the eyes with a hard look.

George glanced down the barrel, and it was Aaron Forsberg staring back at him. _Go on, George_ , he could hear him saying. _You know if you don't, I'll do it again._

He faltered. "I-" He blinked, and suddenly, Constable Ashbury was there. _Sometimes,_ _as a constable, you have to make a different call, because it is the right thing to do._

Nettle came over, placed a hand on his arm. "George. No one's hurt, and no one's going to be. You've put the fear of God in that boy, he'll be thinking twice about his actions in the future. Let him go." She gave his arm a gentle push, and George lowered it to the floor.

He took a step toward the boy and grabbed him by the shoulders. "You think about this the next time you decide to stick somebody up," he threatened him. "The next bunch might not be so forgiving." He spun the boy around and gave him a push. "Now _get out_."

The boy took off out the door, stumbling and scrambling down the street.

George let out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding. Then, he turned to Aunt Nettle. "Are you all right?" he demanded.

She nodded. "Moose are scarier," she admitted.

George's jaw dropped and his eyebrows hit his hairline. "A _moose_? You get held up at gunpoint by a crazy…and a _moose_ is…" George's eyes widened, and he burst out laughing.

Then, he looked over at Penny. The girl was standing by the counter, looking like she was going to pass out at any second. George darted over to her and wrapped her in a hug. "Hey," he told her. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean _anything_ I told him," he promised her. He knelt down so he was eye level with her, ignoring the fact that the room swam, just a little. "Truth is, you're an okay cousin, Penny." He brushed away a tear with his thumb. "You fit right in, in this crazy family of ours," he told her. "And I would _love_ to go riding with you to make up for all this," he added. "What do you say?"

She nodded, throwing her arms around him and sending them both to the floor.

* * *

"Georgie!" Primrose squealed as George stepped off the train a few weeks later. He took a moment, glancing around at the hustle and bustle of the station. Primrose wrapped him in a hug and he returned it fully. "Oh, Georgie, you look so, so…"

" _Don't_ say 'old,'" George warned her with a teasing smile.

"Mature!" Primrose covered it up quickly. "You look so-with that facial hair, and-why, you look like a regular mountain man!"

George ran a hand over his chin. "I definitely need a shave and a haircut," he agreed. "Haileybury's got nothin' like that, sleepy town as it is."

"And are you all healed up?" Primrose asked him.

He nodded. "Doesn't hurt when I breathe anymore, and the only time I notice my head is when I try to read in bright light. Didn't sleep for _anything_ there, though. Tossed and turned every night."

"Why do you think your Aunt Tunie and I stole our pillows from the rectory?" Primrose grinned. "Works like a charm, you try it sometime. It's _so_ good to have you home," his aunt gushed as the two of them stepped out onto the busy street.

George looked around, taking in the sights and sounds of Toronto. "Yes," he said with a nod. "Yes, it is."

 _A shave, and a haircut_ , he thought. _And then…a stop by Station House 1._

* * *

"Sir, before you even say anything," George got up from his chair in Inspector Jones's office as Constable Hatton stood by, leaning with his arms crossed against the window. "Sir, I take full responsibility for my actions regarding Aaron Forsberg," he began. "I followed your orders to the best of my ability-"

Inspector Jones made to say something, but George cut him off. "Your orders, Sir, were to follow up on _all_ leads regarding Adam Gordon. A-and that is what I did. However, I made a poor judgment call in asking the warden to release Forsberg into my custody. At the v-very least, I should have requested one of his officers go with me, or I should have rang for my partner," George said, pointing out the window to where O'Mara was doing a poor job of not looking like he was eavesdropping. "I-I messed up, Inspector, and the outcome doesn't necessarily justify the means, but if it's any consolation, Forsberg is _not_ on the lam anymore and we've discredited him as a potential witness in _anything_ more for the duration of his sentence."

He took a breath, calmer now. "Sir, the fact is…" He shrugged. "The fact is, I really do enjoy being a constable. I'm not the best at it, I-I would never claim to be, but, with some more training and some more time, I-I really think I could be a-a decent one, at the very least."

Jones eyed him. "Are you done, Crabtree?"

George sank into his chair again. _I've spoken my piece. It's up to them now_. He nodded, and swallowed nervously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually quite enjoyed researching Haileybury for this installment, and, shamelessly, since they're incorporated with Cobalt, Ontario, I got an excuse to watch the Cobalt episode of "Still Standing," as well. Of course, we know what Haileybury becomes in just a few years thanks to "All That Glitters." :) It's kind of fun to compare George to Higgins in his early career-eager, not the greatest at his job...and of course, I HAD to think of a way to get Penny Renton into the story, so this was my take. Anyway, sorry not sorry about the cliffhanger (I mean come on, you've seen the show, clearly we know how this ends, but still...).


	12. Summer, 1892

"And so, the Lord tells us through the prophet Isaiah, 'When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow three; when thou walkest through the fire-'"

Fifty feet in front of him, the doors to St. Mary's burst open and Reverend Lovell looked up sharply. "Reverend!" Ben Pittman, now a strapping lad of twenty-five years, came sprinting down the aisle. He skidded to a stop just in front of the altar, breathing heavily.

"Ben?" The Reverend closed his Bible, bookmarking the passage he was reading from. "Ben, what's wrong?" The young man's face was smudged with dirt, or- _or maybe it's something else_ , the Reverend realized. Through the open doors at the back, he could smell smoke.

Ben swallowed, trying to gather his words. "Reverend Lovell, the city…." He grabbed the older man's hand and pulled him out the side door that led into the small cemetery. The two of them ran through the cemetery, which was thick with haze and smelled acridly like smoke, and down to the road, where Ben pointed toward the city center.

"My God," Reverend Lovell gasped, his eyes widening at the site of the raging conflagration. Downtown St. John's could barely be seen through the thick smoke and flames that engulfed the city. It appeared as though the entire waterfront was on fire, and it was spreading.

"It's like the fires of Hell," Ben said solemnly. "We've got to go, sir," he added, grabbing the reverend by the arm. "Dad's got the boat ready."

"I-the women at the rectory, I've got to-" Rev. Lovell pulled away from Ben and ran back up the hill toward the rectory.

"Reverend, _wait_!" Ben called after him, running to catch up.

* * *

_Toronto_

George straightened his hat as he stepped onto the street from Doyle's Pub. The night was warm yet and he was glad he'd rolled up his sleeves. The lights had just come on for the evening. He stuck his hands in his pockets as he headed back to the boarding house. It had been a good day-they'd been following some leads on a string of robberies on Bay Street-it seemed an unusual area for them, and George found himself pondering clues as he walked home, thankful, and not for the last time, that he was still able to ponder such things. The incident with Forsberg had been three years ago, but he was reminded of it every summer. Under Constable Hatton's tutelage, and with O'Mara backing him up, George had managed to obtain a promotion to constable second class

"…Great fire consumes St. John's!"

He stopped so short he nearly tripped over the newsboy on the corner with the evening edition. "What did you say?" George demanded of the boy. His tone was so harsh that the boy took a few steps back in fear. "Let me see that paper," he said, thrusting a hand out. The boy handed it over and didn't even bother to wait for payment, moving further down the street.

George went pale at the headline. "Oh, God." Then, he was running for Union Station. If he hurried, he could catch the last train east.

* * *

_St. John's, Newfoundland_

George's knees buckled and he gripped the rail as hard as he could to keep from falling as they rounded the corner into the harbor and he got his first glimpse of St. John's from the water. There was nothing left of downtown but hollow shells and smoking ruins. Trees were charred, and even some of the stone buildings were missing their roofs. High on the hill, George could see the twin steeples of the Basilica of St. John's, clear as day with no impediments. "Good God," he murmured, echoing the sentiments of many on the ship as it settled in for docking. The ship that he was on carried supplies, but he was starting to think there weren't going to be enough.

The moment the ship was cleared to disembark, George threaded his way through the crowd of volunteers and family members, searching for anyone familiar.

"Oi! George!"

George paused, his shoes sinking into the burnt and ashy ground. He looked around in the crowd, wondering if they'd meant him or some other man. Then, he spotted a familiar face among the people milling about helping to unload.

"Ben!" he yelled, pushing his way through the crowd and giving his childhood friend a hug. "Thank God," he said, clapping his friend on the back. "I can't believe this," he said, pulling away and gesturing to the city.

Ben nodded. "Over half the city's burned," he said. "Houses went up like tinder boxes, it's been so hot and dry here. The fire ate up everything. Folks tried to put their belongings in the churches and some of the other stone buildings but…even they burned in all this."

"Your ma and pops?"

Ben lifted his hat and wiped the sweat off his brow. "Fine, they're fine," he said. "Soon as we got word, Papa was already getting the boat ready to sail. Ma grabbed a few photos, her mother's wedding dress, but we couldn't take much."

George ran a hand over his face, afraid to ask the next question. "A-and…my family?" he asked.

Ben squeezed his shoulder. "They're fine," he said, and George nearly passed out from sheer relief. "They're as well as can be, the fire tore through the rectory and St. Mary's, like everythin' else. Between Papa and I, we managed to convince Reverend Lovell to get on the boat. Come on, I'll take you to them." He pulled George along through the ruins.

It was a harrowing walk. George felt as though he was walking through Hell itself. The air was hot and he could still feel heat emanating from some of the buildings. There was hardly anything that was recognizable as a landmark and he was grateful for Ben leading the way. People were lined up outside makeshift tent camps to get food and clothing. A few of them said hello to Ben as the two men walked by. Ben led them up the street, their shoes making footprints in the charred ground, up in the direction of the Basilica of St. John's. It was comforting, somehow, George thought, that at least that landmark was still standing.

They trudged up the hill. Tents had been set up on the lawn behind the church, and this was where Ben led George. After a moment, he stopped, and nodded.

George followed the direction he'd indicated. Seated on a small camp stool in front of one of the tents was an older man with gray hair and a familiar, but tired, pair of eyes. "Reverend John?" George said shakily.

The older man looked up from the book in his hand, his eyes lighting up. "George," he breathed, and wrapped his arms around the young man. "Praise the Lord, but look at how you've grown!" he laughed, tears in his eyes. They flowed freely, and George felt himself tearing up as well. The two held each other at length, George thrilled that the man who'd been like a father to him was alive and no worse for the wear, at least physically; and Reverend John in awe of the man George had become.

"Is that Georgie?" a woman's voice asked, and George looked over the reverend's shoulder to see several women, his Aunt Azalea leading the pack, converging on the two of them as a crowd gathered to look on. George didn't even mind that they were staring as his aunts took up the group hug, and the tears started all over again.

* * *

"As it turned out, the dog had found the man's union card, which had fallen from his pocket, thereby proving that Mr. Smith had indeed been the one to murder the young lady!" George was telling his family later that evening. The group of them had found a space large enough for George and the Reverend and all of his aunts to gather for a very simple meal, and lots of stories.

"I hope that dog received a commendation," Aunt Marigold remarked.

George laughed. "Not a commendation, but a well-deserved belly rub from myself, for certain."

"Oh, George, we're all just _so_ proud of you, we could burst!" Aunt Dahlia praised him. Several heads nodded around the circle.

"Well, I wouldn't have gotten anywhere without all of your love and encouragement," George assured them. "And some very patient constables," he added under his breath. Reverend John snickered; he'd been the only one within earshot. "I'm just relieved," George said, "that all of _you_ are all right." He looked at Reverend John. "Will you rebuild St. Mary's?" he asked.

Reverend John nodded. "And the rectory," he replied. "Both to their former glory."

"Us girls already have ideas for the rectory," Azalea put in. "But first, we'll be helping put the rest of St. John's to rights, won't we girls?" She reached over and squeezed George's hand. "Will you stay awhile?" she asked. "We could certainly use the extra hands, and a brilliant mind such as yours."

George coughed. "I see someone's been letting Aunt Azalea into Aunt Dahlia's rum again," he kidded, prompting laughter from around the circle. To his aunt, he winked and said, "I don't know how long the Constabulary can spare me. I sent a note back with the captain of the ship I came over on." He bit his lip. "I may have forgotten to tell them I was coming here before I got on the train."

"George, for heaven's sake," Dahlia laughed. "Oh, it feels good to laugh," she said. "Looking around at all this…with everything that's happened…" Her smile faded. "I didn't know if we'd ever laugh again."

"To everything there is a season," Reverend Lovell spoke up. "And a time to every purpose under the heaven. A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is to be planted."

George smiled, pulling the next verse in Ecclesiastes from deep in his memory. "A time to weep," he told Aunt Dahlia, "and a time to laugh." He smiled. "A time to mourn," he continued, noticing the tears on Aunt Daisy's face, and he got up and pulled her up into a hug. "And a time to dance." He helped her sit back down, and smiled at his family. "I've missed you all _so_ much," he professed, sparking off another group hug. _In everything, give thanks._

_It's good to be home._

* * *

George leaned back on the ladder and studied the sign he was painting. DUKE OF- He frowned, and glanced down at Daniel Shaugnessy. "Oi, Dan. Is it Dukeworth or Duckworth?" he called down.

"Duck," Daniel yelled back.

George shook his head. "I guess Duke of Dukeworth does sound pretty strange," he muttered to himself, dipping the brush back into the can. He outlined a block letter 'D', and checked his watch. "Hey, Dan. Take over for me," he said, stepping down and handing off the brush and paint to his friend. "I've got to be somewhere." He clapped Daniel on the back and pulled his cap over his eyes, heading up the road. The day was beautiful, blue sky and a light wind. Sea spray mixed in with the wind, and George breathed deep, enjoying it.

"Hey! Stop there!"

George glanced up to see a man about his age at a dead run down the hill. He had something clutched in his hand, George couldn't see what it was, but the way he was running suggested to him that it probably didn't belong to him.

George collared the man and yanked him backwards. "I believe I heard someone tell you to stop," he grinned, prying his hand open. He untangled a necklace from the man's fingers. "You don't look like a gold man," he said. "More of a silver."

Footsteps sounded behind him, and George looked up to see an older man with a dark mustache and the blue uniform of the Newfoundland Constabulary. "Well done, young man," the older man told George, and then stopped short.

George's eyes widened and he grinned. "Constable Ashbury," he laughed. "It's good to see you again." He handed the thief over to him, and then the necklace.

Ashbury laughed. "From what I hear from the Reverend, George Crabtree, you'd better start calling me Alan, as we're on the same footing."

"Oh, I don't know if I'd ever get used to that," George replied. "It's good to see you again. I was actually on my way to come find you to say hello."

"Well then," Alan Ashbury said, "why don't you walk with me, and we can catch up while I find a place for this fellow."

* * *

"So you're constable second class," Ashbury said later, as George walked his beat with him. "Congratulations, young man."

"Thank you," George said honestly. "It's the hardest thing I've ever done, but I love it."

"Aye, that's the way it'll always be," Ashbury replied. "I'm sure you've figured out by now you'll never be bored."

George sighed. "You have _no_ idea," he admitted. "Or, well, maybe you do," he added as an afterthought. "Anyway…the reason I wanted to track you down, Const-Alan," he began, "was to tell you thank you."

Ashbury frowned. "If you're referring to the time I saved you while you were Sasquatch-hunting, I think I've been thanked enough for a lifetime for that one," he said. "Your…aunts…tend to bring it up quite a lot."

George grimaced. "Ah. Sorry about that. I'm afraid I'll always be seven years old in their eyes. And no, what I meant was…I don't think I would have become a constable if it hadn't been for that day, or the day at the regatta. When I saw you….what you did for Libby…" He shrugged. "Well, that day has always stuck with me," he said. "I-I mean, other constables might have just arrested her, and that would be that, because she'd been stealing from people and that's a crime, but…but you had-" He searched for the right word. "Compassion, I guess," he said. "You took her circumstances into account, a-and I know that's not always a reason or an excuse but…" He looked at the older man. "But it's something I try to remember-that there's usually a reason behind the crime, and it's important to consider people's backgrounds as an important part of it."

He hadn't noticed that they'd stopped walking, and had been standing in the middle of the street during his little speech. George cleared his throat. "Sorry, sir. I'm not usually this long-winded."

"Somehow, son, I doubt that," Ashbury chuckled. "I think that's the nicest thing that anybody's ever said to me," he said. "I'm honored that I've been such an influence in your life," he told George. "And from what I remember of you, you're a fine lad to begin with, with a good head on your shoulders." He clapped George on the back. "I'm sure we'll be hearing great things about Constable George Crabtree."

* * *

Reverend Lovell walked with George down to the harbor a week later. "You're sure you've got everything?" he asked him once more.

"Yes, sir," George replied, hefting his pack. "I think the aunts have sent me with even more this time than they did when I was sixteen! Don't tell them but I may have to share with some of the others on the boat back."

"I'm sure that's their intention anyway," Reverend John replied. He placed his hands on George's shoulders. "I'm sad that we have to say farewell again, George Crabtree."

"I'll try to make it less time between letters this time," George promised. "Please send me some photos of the reconstruction of the church and the rectory. And you know," he added with a cheeky grin, "Now that you've been on the Pittmans boat, maybe _you_ could come visit me next time? If you can survive being on the water with Ben, the ride to Nova Scotia isn't nothin'!"

"I think I've had about all the harrowing adventure the Lord's seen fit to give me," Rev. John objected pulled him into a hug. "I'm so proud of you, George. You've chased your dreams and you're going to do _remarkable_ things. I've a feeling the adventures aren't over for you."

George shook his head. "Well I've already told you, Reverend John, I couldn't have done it without you or the ladies. Everything I do, I hope that I'm making you all proud."

"No worries there, George," Reverend John assured him. "None at all."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: The Great Fire of 1892 occurred on July 8, 1892. For more information, I recommend the Newfoundland & Labrador Heritage website. Obviously the fire was real, the damage was real, and it *may* have affected our characters in this way, but what's real is real and what's fiction is fiction. This chapter was really hard to write and I give major props to those who can work in real life events into a fictional narrative without making light of the historical events and having them occur in a believable way. I hope that I did an OK job with it.
> 
> And yes...that just might be a "Republic of Doyle" reference if you think you spotted one ;) The Duke of Duckworth was the exterior that they used for the bar Christian and Jake co-owned.


	13. Epilogue: Winter, 1894

It was the commotion from downstairs that disturbed him. Twenty-seven year old George Crabtree set the letter he was writing to Aunt Azalea aside as his curiosity got the better of him. He poked his head out of his window at Mrs. Keening's Boarding House, and leaned out into the cold January air. Down in the alleyway below his window, he could make out two figures-one in a homburg hat and a long coat intently studying the walls of the buildings; the other was standing off his shoulder wearing a coat and a bowler.

"…our suspect was carrying it when he left the scene, but when we arrested him, it was nowhere to be found."

"So you think he stashed it?"

"I think…" The man in the homburg glanced up, caught George looking. "You, there!" he called up.

George jumped, banging his head on the upper part of the window. "Sir?" he asked, grimacing and rubbing his head.

"Do you live in this building?"

George blinked. "I would hope so, otherwise I've been paying rent for the wrong room," he called down.

The man in the homburg didn't seem like he appreciated the attempt at a joke. He was a few years older than George, and he opened his coat, displaying a silver badge tacked to his vest. "Detective Murdoch, Toronto Constabulary."

George's eyes widened. _Oh good going, George_. He swallowed. "Yes, sir, I know who you are."

He'd _heard_ of Murdoch but had never met the man in person-the detective worked out of Station House 4 under Inspector Brackenreid, and had a _ridiculously_ successful solve rate. He'd heard Detective Anderson speak about him, always making him seem like he was some kind of eccentric with his Catholic doctrine, and 'newfangled ideas' about crime solving and scientific techniques. To George, it had seemed like sour grapes. _Whatever ideas Murdoch had_ , he'd thought, _apparently, they worked_!

The detective seemed surprised by that notion. "I see. Were you home two nights ago?"

George shook his head. "No, I was-" He frowned. "Sir, give me a moment and we can do with less shouting!" He ducked back inside his room and shrugged into the coat his aunts had mailed him from Newfoundland the prior Christmas, grabbed his hat and key, and jogged downstairs, meeting Detective Murdoch and the other man, whom he now assumed must be Inspector Brackenreid, in the alley. He stuck his hand out. "George Crabtree, sir. I'm, um, I work for the constabulary as well, out of Station House 1. Constable."

"Nice to meet ya," the Inspector said shortly. "Now, about the detective's question."

"Oh. Right. Um, no I was at the desk that night," George admitted. He looked around. "What is it exactly that you're looking for, Detective?"

The detective and the inspector exchanged a look. "A man was killed on Queen Street two nights ago. The suspect was chased along this route. Witnesses say he ran from the scene with something in his hand the coroner believes might be our murder weapon."

George nodded. "I see. Well, what was the nature of the murder?"

"He was beaten to death," Brackenreid told him.

"Yes, with something with blunt, about…" The detective made a circular shape with his gloved hands. "About this big around."

George glanced around the alley. "Perhaps a pipe?" he offered. "Or a-a mallet, of some kind?"

Brackenreid eyed him. "That's what we're trying to figure out…bugalugs." He shook his head.

George ignored him, looking around. "This laneway is usually a mess," he admitted. "Lots of folks coming and going, all manner of things get lost or left or thrown awa-" He paused, looking up at the fire escape that ran down the side of his building. He pointed. "Sirs. Might that be what you're looking for?" He pulled himself up a few rungs of the ladder and reached a hand onto the first landing, coming away with a thick, foot-long piece of wood.

"What have you there, Constable?" the Detective asked him.

"Looks like a billy club, sir," George replied, hopping back off the ladder, and handing his discovery to the Detective. "Useful tool," he added, "for coppers and thieves alike."

Detective Murdoch examined the find. He pointed to one end. "Sir. I believe that's blood," he noted to the inspector.

Brackenreid raised an eyebrow, looking, George thought, mildly impressed. "Could be our murder weapon," Brackenreid replied, trying to sound indifferent.

"We'll take it back to the station house and look for fingermarks," Murdoch said.

Fingermarks? George frowned. "Excuse me sir, _what_ are you looking for?" he asked, having not heard the term before.

"Fingermarks," the detective responded, and George saw Brackenreid roll his eyes and mutter something under his breath that sounded like, "Here we go."

The detective handed the club over to the inspector, then grabbed George's hand. "Each of us has unique markings on the pads of our fingers," he told George, holding George's hand up close to his eyes. "I believe that these patterns are unique to each individual, and research suggests that no two fingermarks on any one person are alike."

"What about identical twins, sir?" George questioned, studying his fingers intently. "I-if everything about them is the same, would that suggest these-" here he wiggled his fingers, "-these _fingermarks_ would be the same as well?"

"Dear God, there's two of them," Brackenreid muttered.

The detective looked thoughtful. "I hadn't considered….that raises an excellent point!"

George grinned. "And for that matter," he said, "would a group of triplets, would theirs be the same? I knew a family back home in Newfoundland, they had _five_ identical girls, right down to their eyes and freckles-"

"Oi you two," Brackenreid cut them off. "Murdoch, let's solve one mystery at a time," he suggested dryly.

"Right." The detective looked a mix of embarrassed and disappointed that he couldn't continue. "Thank you, for your help, Constable," he said, shaking George's hand.

"Of course," George shrugged. The two men turned to leave and George stood in the cold, staring at his fingers. "Sir-Detective Murdoch?" he called.

Murdoch paused, and turned around. "Might I….that is," George questioned, biting his bottom lip. "Might I accompany you to Station House 4 to observe this procedure of looking for fingermarks?" he asked hopefully.

The detective looked at the inspector. "Oh, all right, then," Brackenreid said. "Long as you don't touch anything."

 _This is fantastic!_ George grinned, stuck his hands in his pockets and ran to catch up with them.

* * *

George paused outside the door to Station House 4 and glanced at the façade. Station House 4 had been built as the city expanded, so it was larger, a little newer-looking than Station House 1. A plate above the door proclaimed STATION HOUSE 4, 1889. He smiled, and followed Inspector Brackenreid and Detective Murdoch into the station and through the bullpen. Murdoch's office was at the back of the building and George followed, earning some strange looks from the other constables in the bullpen. He realized he still had his hands in his pockets, but Brackenreid had told him not to touch anything, and he seemed an intimidating fellow.

George stepped into Murdoch's office and leaned against a file cabinet. Murdoch's office was a cluttered mess. A desk with a lamp sat near the window, but there was a second desk in the room, this one with a second lamp, a setup like a chemistry lab, and lots of other gadgets and parts that George couldn't identify. Murdoch cleared a space and flicked on the lamp. George watched him set the club down on the desktop and rummage for something on the other desk. He came back with a small jar and an artist's brush.

"Sir?" George queried, and Murdoch beckoned him forward.

"Our skin has natural oils," the detective began, "and anytime we touch something-"

"Like your suspect with this club?" George interrupted.

Murdoch nodded. "Exactly. When we touch things, especially hard surfaces, we leave behind a print. This powder," here he opened the jar and sprinkled some on the club. "This powder adheres to the oils-"

"And reveals the fingermark." George shook his head as Murdoch brushed the powder away with the brush gently, and handed George a magnifying glass. George held it to the club and gasped at the grouping of swirls and loops on the club. He shook his head in disbelief and crossed his arms over his chest. "That's amazing, sir," he told Murdoch, handing back the magnifying glass. "And so then, what, you try to match them to the suspect you have in custody to see if he's handled the murder weapon?"

"Indeed," Murdoch confirmed.

"This is an achievement," George told him, in awe. "Truly."

"No, Constable," Murdoch disagreed. "It's just science."

"Call it what you want, sir," George argued, "it's still an achievement in crime solving." He glanced at his watch. "I should get going, I've got to be at work soon." He offered a hand to Murdoch. "It was an honor to meet you, sir. Perhaps I'll see you out on my beat sometime." George was backing toward the door. "Oh, and uh, good luck with your case," he added.

"Thank you, Constable," Murdoch nodded to him, staring after him thoughtfully.

* * *

"Crabtree!"

George took his helmet off and brushed the snow off his jacket as he entered Station House 1 later that afternoon. He looked up to see Inspector Jones beckoning him from his office door. _Great, what have I done now?_ he wondered as he tucked his helmet under his arm and followed Jones into his office.

"Pack your bags, Crabtree," Jones told him, when George had come inside and closed the door behind him.

George's jaw dropped. " _What_?" he gaped. "Sir, I-"

Jones pointed to a file on his desk. "That's your personnel file," he told the younger man. "You're to report to Station House 4," he told him.

George's jaw was still on the floorboards. "Station House _4_?" he asked, when he'd found his voice. "I-I don't-"

"You've been requested," Jones said, as if he still couldn't quite believe it and was annoyed that someone had gone over his head. "By Detective Murdoch."

" _Really_?" George asked ecstatically. Then, he remembered who he was talking to. "I mean," he said, trying to inject a bit more decorum into his voice. "I-I'll clear my things right away, sir," he told Inspector Jones. "It's, um, it's been a pleasure working here the past eight years," he added.

Jones rolled his eyes. "Go on, Crabtree, out with you," he ordered him.

George nodded and left the office, closing the door behind him. He leaned against the closed door once he was outside and grinned.

 _I've a feeling the adventures aren't over for you,_ he remembered Reverend John telling him.

He smiled.

* * *

_A few weeks later..._

Reverend John opened the letter and beckoned the ladies over to the pews. They crowded around. "It's from George," he told them, and fished for his glasses so he could read it aloud.

_Dear Reverend John and Aunts Azalea, Marigold, Ivy, Iris, and Daisy,_

_I hope that this letter finds all of you in good health and spirits. Thank you for the photos of the church and the rectory; they both look splendid. Truly, the lot of you are miracle workers. I am pleased to hear that St. John's is recovering well. I miss you all. Toronto is the same: always expanding and never boring. Aunts Petunia and Primrose say hello and send their love._

_I had hoped to come for a visit sometime this summer, but plans have changed. I have been transferred to Station House #4 to work under one of the greatest detectives in the city. He is a Catholic, Reverend John, but he's a fine man, so don't hold that against him. He has all these notions and scientific theories and how they will apply to crime solving in the future. Some of them seem quite...unusual, but as he has one of the most successful closure rates in the entire constabulary, I would imagine that whatever he comes up with must work out somehow, in the end._

_I am partnered with a man named Higgins. He's younger than I am, and very green, but the Inspector seems to think we'll work well together. He asks a lot of questions and can't seem to do anything on his own, but I think with some more time he'll be a passable constable._

_Reverend John, I remember you telling me before I returned to Toronto after the fire, that you suspected that my adventures in the constabulary were far from over. I've a feeling, with this new assignment, that the future indeed holds many more for me. I'll look forward to sharing them with you. Perhaps, I shall have so many that I could someday write a book!_

_Yours truly,  
George Crabtree_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! "Murdoch Mysteries" first episode, "Power" takes place in 1895, so we've caught up to showtime :).
> 
> I have lots of people to thank for this story, including RuthieGreen for catching me on historical inaccuracies and Kiki's Fanfiction World for catching me on plot inconsistencies ;). I appreciate all your help! Also, in a rewatch of S12, I hear Murdoch say something to George about who he used to work with at Station 1, so I made a few edits. This version varies from what's at FF net because well, this is easier to edit ;)
> 
> I'm also forever grateful to the brilliant writing team on the actual show for giving us such a fun sandbox to play in, and giving me SO MANY things to call back to and reference throughout this story! If you can spot all the in-show references you'll get virtual cookies from myself-even *I'm* not sure how many there are-feel free to speculate.
> 
> He'll never see this note, but Jonny Harris, should you ever see this, thank you for giving life to George Crabtree. He's kind of my favorite, in case you couldn't tell, and you kill this role!
> 
> I've spent a TON of time on the Murdoch Mysteries fandom wiki, so props to whoever maintains that wiki, especially George's page, because I'm pretty sure 95% of your click count in the past month or so has been me ;). Also thanks to the Newfoundland & Labrador Heritage website, tourism website, and Wikipedia page. I hope the things I've written about NL are accurate. I'd like to come for a visit someday when they open the borders back up! (And Allan Hawco, you may not know it but all the NL slang I sprinkled in here I picked up after multiple watchings of "Republic of Doyle," so thanks to him as well ;)
> 
> Lastly, thank you to everybody who's read, commented, kudo'd, clicked on, or put this story on bookmark. YOU are #whyIwrite. It's been a blast, and I've enjoyed talking with commenters and hanging out in this fandom. I'll definitely stick around!
> 
> ChibiD


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